


Imbolc

by MerlinLikeTheBird



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Druids, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Merlin & Morgana Friendship (Merlin), Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Pining, Powerful Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Merlin, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, smart arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 110,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24769378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerlinLikeTheBird/pseuds/MerlinLikeTheBird
Summary: “Merlin, what is in your hair?” Gaius asks - rather judgmentally, Merlin thinks. It’s not as though Gaius can turn into a bird, making his opinion irrelevant. Everyone’s opinions shall now be irrelevant to him unless they can turn into birds, he decides. He puts a hand to his hair and feels a leaf.“For your information I spent a lot of time in a tree last night.” He says, not finding it in him to feel embarrassed.“A tree?!” Arthur exclaims, and Merlin finds it in him to feel embarrassed. Oh no. He’s standing by the door, and in his haze Merlin had not noticed him. His blue eyes are wide and bright and his grin is spreading across his face already. Merlin closes his eyes, dreading what he knows is coming.(So this is a very canon-inaccurate sort of re-telling, with some big divergences, minus a dragon or prophecy or two)
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 483
Kudos: 1173





	1. Merlin Fights an Old Woman

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is a very canon-inaccurate sort of re-telling, with some big divergences. Without saying too much about it, I wanted the purge to have some further reaching consequences. I think Uther has always been the main villain of the series for me, and all these years later I must still be mad about it, because here we are! 
> 
> There is no dragon or prophecy driving Merlin, but he likes Arthur anyway :P  
> 
> 
> Thanks very much for giving this a chance, I hope you enjoy it! I of course also appreciate any feedback! Full disclosure - it's my first fic. I personally think it gets a little better as it goes, so if you have any concrit for me especially towards the beginning it's 100% totally welcome, seriously! Help lol

Merlin thinks that there might still be a pea in his ear. He wonders morosely if it might travel further inwards and kill him, as it seems if not less painful than a beheading somewhat less public.

At least he had met Gwen, a kind and shining beacon of goodness on an otherwise impossibly embarrassing day. Merlin had never thought he would meet a prince at all, but if he _had_ he’s sure his imagination would never be so cruel as to conjure up Prince Arthur. _Toad,_ Merlin thought uncharitably. _Mule_.

Something of that must have been written on his face as he tried and failed to find the Lady Morgana’s rooms to leave that evening’s potion from Gaius.

“No love lost for the prince I imagine,” an older woman nodded sympathetically to him as they passed each other. Merlin supposed the stains on his clothes spoke as well as anything, but was dismayed that this might forever more be the first thing that would cross one’s mind when seeing him. Perhaps it was not too late to return to Ealdor.

“Not as such, no.” he answered dryly. The unhappy pull of her mouth was to him more serious than concern for a stranger in the stocks warranted, and seemed somehow familiar. He recalls the afternoon of the execution, and places her face in the crowd.

He remembers her.

She had wept, but had not looked away from the axe even to blink. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m looking for the Lady Morgana’s rooms, I don’t suppose you know the way?”

“They’re both up here somewhere. We’ll find them.” She gives him the impression that she is looking past him, wistful as she pats at his arm vaguely and continues forwards. He turns around and sees only the smooth stone wall behind him, as he knew he would.

 _Well_ , he thought, hesitating.

Merlin, who had vowed a dozen times in the past day to get into no more trouble, waits only long enough for her to turn down the corridor before following her.

After a while of this he peeks around a corner, the very picture of stealth.

She does not hesitate at all as she approaches an ornate door with a straight backed guard standing vigil. Merlin himself had passed that door twice already looking for Morgana’s chambers, but hadn’t dared to ask the stern guard directions.

 _Perhaps she truly is just on castle business._ He feels a bit foolish.

The guard collapses in a heap, and the lock on the door clicks open. She steps over him unceremoniously and shuts the door behind her. _Or perhaps not._

It’s not hard to reason that these are the prince’s rooms.

Merlin flings himself from around his corner, only to stop, wringing his hands.

There are no more guards in sight and as he half opens his mouth to shout he worries that she will hear him and flee. Or worse, silence him with whatever she had done to the guard. His mind raced, fearing a confrontation. He’s been in so much trouble already! In his indecision he takes another step towards the door, and a hurried two steps back behind his corner. What a wonderful corner this was, perhaps he should just stay here for a while longer. Maybe she only wanted to smear some awful rotten vegetables on the prince’s clothes, in which case it would be richly deserved.

Even as he thinks it he knows that line of reasoning is hopeless, even if the prince _is_ a toad. It’s not in Merlin’s nature to turn a blind eye, and there is no use pretending otherwise. He steels himself just in time for the door to open once more, and as she steps out into the corridor he sees she is holding a rough hewn doll of some kind.

She is stuffing something inside the hollow chest of it, and murmuring lowly, and Merlin’s eyes widen and teeth knock together as he feels a bleak chill run from his hair to his toes. The seriousness of this strikes him and any good humor or hope of reasoning with the witch is abandoned. Whatever it is she is doing makes him feel so ill and unsettled that he can barely stay on his legs. He grips the wall behind him. A high pitched ringing has begun in his ears and he blinks rapidly, feeling dizzy. Perhaps that is why it takes him a moment to realize she is striding away again. This time towards the center of the castle.

***

Arthur is bored. He has sat silently behind Uther for hours now it feels like, as his father answers petitions from his court. Lord Merek alone has been talking for several of those hours himself at this point. Morgana has pretended to fall asleep no fewer than three times already.

It is not that Arthur does not care, and it is not that Arthur does not learn from this. It is that he is not permitted to speak unless directly asked, and that his only relief is exchanging faces with Morgana as if they were both still children.

As always, Morgana knows exactly when to mock him. He sees her recieve a fresh cup of wine from her maidservant, and she smiles smugly at him. She had laughed at him mercilessly for being goaded so thoroughly, making sure he was aware he had it coming. As if Morgana’s good opinion meant anything to _him._ Or indeed to anyone with any sense. He turns away from her, scoffing, and peers out over the throne room.

The doors to the great room are open, and in his boredom he idly watches an old woman approach the guards. They bar her from entry of course, as no matter her business there will be no audience with the king for a beggar. He sighs.

It is _because_ he is watching that he sees the very instant she lays eyes on him, and he sits up straighter, adrenaline spiking.

“Father,” he starts.

“Show respect, listen as Lord Merek speaks.”

“ _Father!_ ” he demands more urgently, and stands as the rest of the hall turns to the sudden commotion at the doors. The guards have drawn their weapons as the crone advances, something small and soft looking held in her hands, but she is wielding it as though it is a dagger.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son!” She cries out, clenching a clawed hand around the thing and twisting. Arthur lurches suddenly, seizing impossibly as he is thrown onto the stone floor. He had fallen from horses and taken blows in training that knocked the very breath from him, but this is so much worse.

It is as though his entire body is being choked by a great snake, impotent as he cannot even raise his arms to defend himself. He thought he had no more breath to give, but one more choked gasp is wrenched out of him, as he is dragged forwards by invisible hands. He hears Morgana shrieking as though from a great distance, and feels her nails clawing into him through his clothes as she tries futilely to pull him backwards.

His father bellows, “ _Guards! Witchcraft!_ ” but she does not stop. Arthur’s vision is darkening, but he sees the absolute fury on her face through the sheen of magic she is wielding to keep the guards at bay. He knows then that he is not a hostage, and she doesn’t intend for either of them to survive the day.

Spots form in the corners of his eyes and he feels as though he is falling through a well of black water. Everything is a fog, and the world seems as though it is listing and crashing sideways, even the witch.

But no, the pressure around his chest starts to relieve, and his vision starts to clear. He can see that she hasn’t been turned sideways by the world tipping, but instead she has been tackled to the floor by a boy that Arthur blearily recognized.

The guards swarm to the crone as she wails.

The horrible doll is cradled in the boy’s hands, but far more gently, and his face is pale and shocked as he stares back at Arthur.

There is the swing of a sword, and then she is silent.

***

Merlin has what he imagines must be the entire court of Camelot looking at him. He is dragged to his feet, but not overly harshly, and he tries not to look at the dead body. He’s never seen a dead body before.

The king is red with anger, but his eyes never leave the sorceress. “Boy,” he begins “you have saved my son’s life.”

Merlin is giddy with relief, and then immediately flooded with a new breed of terror. Is he supposed to say anything to that? Aren’t there rules for speaking to a king? He’s pretty sure there are rules. He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be holding a cursed doll of a king’s son in front of said king, at minimum. Frantically he is grateful that at least the spell seemed to be over, now that the source was… gone. _Dead._ He swallows. He’s saved from answering.

“You must be rewarded. Yes,” his eyes finally lift from the witch to fall on Merlin. “A place in my son’s household. His manservant, a fitting reward.”

Looking past the king to Prince Arthur, his face is a perfect mirror of his own stunned disbelief. He clearly barely has the energy to lift his head, but he still manages to firmly mouth the word ‘ _No!’_ at Merlin. Although Merlin feels as though he should disagree on everything the prince ever has or ever will say on principle, he cannot help but agree with him now.

“Remove her,” the king continues, apparently done with the matter.

Merlin doesn’t really know how to bow, but sloppily tries. He doesn’t really know what to do with the doll, either. What does he do now? Does he stay or leave? He feels it would be awkward to ask, and doesn’t really want to answer any questions anyway.

He spins uselessly in place twice unsure of where to go. He thinks dizzily that he might need to sit down.

A hand at his elbow halts him. Gwen’s worried face looks up at him, and he feels hopeful - rescue, at last!

“Let’s get you a drink of water, hm?” She’s speaking to him as though he might lose his mind, and since that is precisely how he feels he can only find it in himself to be grateful.

“Please,” he begs.

Behind her, Arthur has been sat upright as Uther and a beautiful dark haired lady tend to him. The prat scowls at him, and before he can think better of it, Merlin sticks his tongue out at him. The lady catches it as well, and laughs.

It is far later that evening, when Merlin is sitting with Gaius that he learns the identity of Mary Collins. Although he cannot condone what she did in her efforts for vengeance he thinks of his own mother, and feels a swell of pity nonetheless. Gaius speaks plainly to him that magic of any sort is not to be done near the prince.   
Well Merlin could have told him that. Gaius tells him not to roll his eyes.

He goes to his own room - his _own room -_ and lays down on his own bed. _His own bed._

Despite his own fortune turning mostly for the better, sleep doesn’t come. His ears echo with the sound the sword made cutting through Mary Collin’s cries for her son. He cannot help but wonder if there was anything different that he could have done to save both her and Arthur. Bully that he was, he didn’t deserve to die for something Uther did.

Buried underneath his spare shirt under the bed, his fingers find the edge of his new magic book.

***

“We’re late, we’re late, get up get up get up!”

“ _We’re_ late? There’s nothing _you_ ever have to do to be late to.” Arthur wraps his arms around his pillow and manfully hides. The covers yank off of him and he kicks out aimlessly, hoping to catch Merlin.

Merlin is merciless, and pinches him under his arm. While Arthur swats at him the pillow is pulled violently off his head. A roll of soft bread, still warm, is shoved in his mouth, and when Arthur blinks at it he can see Merlin has already stolen a bite. Of course.

Standing reluctantly a shirt is shoved over his head. With all the meagre strength his skinny body can muster, Merlin steps on his foot and stays there as he ties the laces.

“And what have I done now?” Arthur meets his eyes and does not blink. He can see Merlin trying to make himself heavier through sheer willpower. Arthur refuses to blink.

“Gwen told me about the laundresses,” Merlin finally hisses at him.

Arthur throws his head back and laughs delightedly, suddenly finding the morning that much brighter. “It’s been months!”

“Yes, laugh all you want, you sound like a donkey!” Merlin finally gets off of his foot in order to spin him and force a coat on. “Now hurry up, your brutes are waiting, it’s half past.”

Arthur sees the position of the sun as he squints out the window, suddenly much more awake. “We’re late, hurry up Merlin, for once in your life!” He pulls on his own trousers and heads for the door. “Ready my sword, slowpoke,” he says around a mouth full of bread.

He savors Merlin’s squawk of outrage.

At the training grounds Leon has begun the drills, and Arthur nods his thanks, stepping in. He hears a clatter of armor behind him as Merlin finally catches up. The amount he’s carrying means Arthur can barely see two annoyed blue eyes peeking over the top.

“Good morning, sire?”

“Good morning Leon. Let us begin. Merlin, find a use for yourself.” Once Merlin has a seat out of earshot with a whetstone, Arthur turns to Leon once more. “Have you heard further word about Howden?”

“Only rumors. Truthfully I’m not sure what to conclude with so little evidence,” Arthur gestures for him to continue as they observe the drills. “Well. It might just be that they need medical aid. The yield from harvests has been less these past years, they may suffer ailments for it.” A long moment stretches between them. “The woman who came to Camelot for aid spoke of her neighbor having an impossible hunger. Stealing and eating more than any one man could ever eat, and just growing thinner and thinner.”

“Hunger is not a crime, but theft is. Could it be he is smuggling the stores out somewhere, or to someone?”

“It is as likely as anything else.”

“I shall speak to my father, perhaps he will allow us to answer their plea.”

He turns to look at Merlin, laughing gaily as Gwen joins him, their dark heads bent together. Leon claps his hand to his shoulder briefly.

“Harvests go in cycles, sire. We are due a good turn.”

***

The next day finds Merlin sitting with Gwen as she patiently shows him a tricky stitch over and over. Morgana is reading to them as they work, distracting him with a truly fantastic telling that Merlin felt sure she made up half of. He doesn’t think Geoffrey would keep a book in the Library that said that. Or certainly not let Morgana at it.

Arthur ruins everything, as he tends to do, by demanding his company to the nearby village of Howden.

“Shall I kill him for you?” Morgana asks.

“Better not,” Merlin demures. It has barely been six months since he came to Camelot, but he has learned all too well by now the sort of trouble that finds Arthur. If he complains too much and is left behind he would feel responsible for whatever poor creature inevitably eats Arthur and gets sick.

Once they are on the horses he cannot help but enjoy himself. He’d never ridden a horse in his life, but now he has done so enough that he has a _preferred_ horse. His mother would be pleased for him, and Will would laugh at him, but he can’t help but love the mare he has come to call Chestnut.

He does not dare tell Arthur.

He thinks the horse has a name already that is appropriately menacing for the king’s stables, but he and Chestnut have an understanding. She gets as many pats as she wants, maybe a carrot or two, and Merlin gets sedately carried behind Arthur’s own Llamrei no matter how poorly he rides.

“Why are we headed to Howden anyway?”

“There might be an illness.” Arthur answers him after a considering look.

“Should we have brought Gaius do you think?”

“It’s not so far that we cannot return with him if necessary.” Arthur leans his head towards Merlin’s. “It may be a couple of villagers causing trouble. I wouldn’t drag Gaius away from his books and potions when it may yet prove to be nothing.”

Merlin bites his lip. Truthfully, it never seems to be nothing. If Arthur ever felt that it was nothing it was likely that Merlin had taken care of the problem with great effort of his person for absolutely no thanks at all.

“Will we have to make camp, or will we reach the village today?”

“We’ll camp one night, it will be a short journey tomorrow.”

Dusk sneaks up on Merlin. It seems like not so long ago the summer sun stretched late into the night, but they stop early, with plenty of time before the need for sleep.

These are some of Merlin’s favorite times. Arthur always seems his best self amongst his men when he has purpose. Once the camp chores are done the knights take turns at watch while the rest try to one up each other with increasingly unbelievable tales. It is chill enough that they gather around the campfire, Arthur sitting next to him as they eat. The firelight casts him in an unfairly golden and flattering light, and Merlin despairs of him. Arthur laughs loudly and elbows Merlin in the ribs as Sir Osric gestures wildly and mimes a fight with Sir Robert, who is gamely pretending to be a bear. Feeling warm and full and in a very good mood, Merlin privately admits Arthur’s laugh barely sounds like a donkey at all.

As true night approaches Merlin finds a spot to settle. He can still hear the knights speaking lowly, and he can pull Arthur’s voice out of the murmurs with ease. His tone is untroubled, and Merlin closes his eyes and listens for a bit. The clover is so soft beneath him. He struggles to open his eyes for a bit longer, and as he watches the stars spin above him for a time he swears he hears a quiet _Goodnight, Merlin_.

They arrive in Howden after a rainless night, just past noon, while the sun is high and bright. While the village is a small one Ealdor is smaller still. Houses and gardens speckle the lowly rolling hills, and the river looks gentle. It is far too cold, but there is something about it that calls to Merlin in spite of that, and he longs for a few more days of summer so that he might have a swim.

They have caught attention of course, and as Arthur dismounts Llamrei a village man is already approaching.

Merlin shamelessly tries to eavesdrop, but they are too far away from him - as well as he has his hands full with the reins of both Chestnut and Llamrei. Who are in turns too lazy and too obedient to shuffle forwards with Merlin.

It doesn’t much matter though, as Arthur returns to him quickly. “Come, leave the horses.” With a nod a village girl takes them to a trough, and Merlin flaps his hand foolishly after Chestnut. Arthur rolls his eyes but looks amused as he turns, his back to Merlin as they follow the village man to a house nestled close to the river. “You’re Gaius’s apprentice, you tell me if you think this man is ill.”

“I’m not as good as Gaius!” Merlin exclaims.

“Well I know _that_ , just keep your eyes open.”

As soon as the door swings open it is apparent that _anyone_ with eyes could have known this man was ill, physician’s apprentice or no. After the beauty of the village his ravaged body seemed especially jarring. Even Arthur, who always was ready to boast of his stout constitution seemed taken aback. Merlin was not sure how he still stood and moved about, his yellowed skin pulled tight over his bones, and an unusual lump at his side, visible even through his tunic.

“Yes,” Arthur said, senselessly.

Merlin felt a tug at his own gut that he was not sure was sympathy. Something was at the edge of his senses, alarming his _magic_ , and it felt hungry.

“Arthur,” he interrupted. He gripped at Arthur’s sleeve, feeling very childish - but not sure how to express that something here was both magic, and dangerous, and also that perhaps bringing Merlin here was a bad idea.

Arthur cleared his throat and continued, “I’m afraid that concerns have been raised about your behavior. Including an accusation of theft of food stores,” it seemed impossible that this man had eaten them all, or indeed any, himself. “If there are some in your care that you are providing for I’m sure we can make sure they are fed.”

“It was me.” The man’s voice is a weak breath. “I don’t mean to. I can’t stop. I eat and I eat, a-and I cannot stop myself!” He buries his head in his hands, and Merlin sees his fingernails are an alarming blue.

“You… are clearly unwell. Perhaps we can find the cause of this illness. Have any others been affected?” He turns to the village man who had led them.

“No, m’lord, at least not that I know. We sent word to all the near villages, but no one. Another woman came to try and help, but she seemed hale.”

“Not a plague then. The crops, the livestock? Does the town have a well?”

“The crops have been full, m’lord.” He speaks with the tone of someone who does not wish to complain to a man who can kill him. “Not as rich as some years, but we get by with some to spare.”

“And the woman who came, a healer?”

As they speak Merlin dares to approach the man, who has sunk to his knees on the ground. He doesn’t release Arthur’s shirt, but tries to get a closer look. He seems in control of himself for now, whatever else. He is still, and there is no wind in his house, but even so his tunic rustles slightly at his side, and Merlin’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Perhaps we should speak outside and let him rest!” It is a mark of Arthur’s distraction that he has not noticed that Merlin has not once let go of him. Merlin drags him outside and doesn’t stop until they pass through the bundle of knights and more distance besides.

“Merlin, I would have thought you wouldn’t be so heartless. He’s clearly ill!”

“He’s more than ill!”

Arthur’s gaze sharpens on him,“You believe it to be unnatural in origin?”

“I don’t _know_!” He wails. They are drawing attention.

“Sire?” Sir Osric appears at Arthur’s shoulder, a woman at his side.

“I can tell you what it is,” she offers, “although you may not be glad to hear it. Follow me, knight of Camelot.”

***

“If I told you this was magical in nature, what would you say?” She stands by the river, Arthur watching her carefully as she peers over the water, balanced easily on a large stone. The knights stand at a distance, but Merlin hovers, unwilling to leave. She seems amused by him.

“I would hear your reasoning,” Arthur offered.

“The land is out of balance, and unfed, so the spirits seek other sources.”

“A curse?”

“No.” She turns to him. “Usually an Alp-luachra wouldn’t venture to a village like this. They aren’t kind things, but this is unusual.” Her eyes are challenging. “It’s not a problem because of magic, it’s a problem because of the lack.”

Merlin can see Arthur clench his jaw.

“Your king unbalanced the land when he spilled the blood of so many.” She is smiling at him, and Merlin wonders if she knows who Arthur is, or if she would say as much to any knight in Camelot red. “Unbalanced the rivers when he drowned their children.”

Arthur is silent.

“Don’t despair!” She laughs at him, not totally unkindly. “Or perhaps you will be disappointed, but we can yet have a peaceful solution here. For the most part anyway. Give the man salt to eat, the Alp-luachra will shrivel and be forced out of him. From there it will die as easily as most things do.” Her blonde hair waves behind her in the sunshine. “Simple. But the river will not be healed. This will happen again.”

“And _if_ you speak the truth, how would we ensure this does not happen again.”

“I think you might guess what I would say.” The pretty curve of her mouth twists up without humor.

He is quiet for a long moment, his throat clicks as he swallows. “You have no proof of your claims.”

“They sent for help, and you came, yes? So did I. Try the salt - it won’t kill the man, but it might save him. There is no risk but to your pride.” She turns back to the village, dismissing the both of them, but Merlin can’t seem to take his eyes off of the water.

_Is it true?_

“It seems opportune, that you should be here to give me this information. If this is your doing I will see justice done.” Arthur speaks and at this, her patience runs out.

“ _Justice!_ I do not fear your idea of justice, knight, and you will see the truth easily enough yourself. Or do you fear more that I _am_ telling the truth? Hm?” The water rolls against the dark rocks. “Ask yourself why Camelot dwindles-!” She cuts herself off, furious. “Fine. Seek me out and _try_ to kill me if you can.”

“I do not have your name.” Arthur has a temper, Merlin knows, but for now he is unnaturally still.

“Look for Morgause.” She storms back towards the village without another word, leaving Merlin and Arthur in a tense silence.

“It can’t be so.” Arthur speaks so quietly Merlin is certain he is not meant to hear. The water does not answer.

Merlin wrings his hands. He would give anything to go back to the easy peace of last night, Arthur’s happy weight pressed against his side as he laughed. “Arthur,” he begins.

“We must return to the village. A man’s life is at stake.” Arthur is brave, Merlin knows it, but he feels it anew. This is a different sort of bravery than he has seen before.

“Even if this works, it doesn’t mean,” Merlin trails off. “The other stuff.”

“Of course,” Arthur allows him the dignity of pretending to be comforted.

As Arthur walks back to join his knights, lost in his own mind, Merlin allows himself a moment to kneel by the river. It doesn’t _look_ dangerous.

Much like with Mary Collins all those months ago all he can muster himself to feel is sadness. Regret that such things should happen at all. Hopefully this village would recover with no loss of life, but if the magic is leaving Camelot… Merlin doesn’t want to admit his fear. Even he’s heard of the Perilous Lands.

Letting his fingers trail through the clear water, he tries his best to pour a little bit of his own magic into it instead. The bright sunlight flickering on the surface of the river casts red and gold spots behind his closed eyes. Arthur comes back into his mind unbidden, the tall, proud shape of him - but he thinks the river understands anyway.

He fancies that it is twinkling just a bit more in the sun, swelling with a bit more cheer, but maybe not. He hopes it will be safer now.

“Feel better soon,” he wishes aloud, inanely. With that he turns to catch up to Arthur, who is ordering his men to find some salt, and to be quick about it.

The following expulsion of the Alp-luachra is not something that Merlin ever intends to revisit, but in this at least Morgause is right. It does die, and the man does live. He will recover, and no one will starve this winter, but Arthur’s eyes are tense.

They agree to stay one night, not wishing to impose for long when the village has recovering of its own to do. Arthur is put in the only room at the tavern, and Merlin sleeps on the floor. They have not spoken.

“Do you-” a pause, “You can’t-” Arthur always speaks with confidence, but he starts and stops before settling. “Tell me about your village.”

“Ealdor?”

“Usually you can’t shut up, just tell me about it. I already knew you were from Escetir, your bumpkin accent gave you away ages ago.”

“Prat.” Merlin casts his mind about, not sure what to offer. What could possibly impress Arthur, who had everything in the word laid out at his feet? “Well, it’s small. Even smaller than Howden. You have to go past the ridge of Ascetir to get there.”

“I know where it _is,_ you fool.”

“Alright, well what do you want to know?”

“What’s it like? You have family there?”

Merlin suddenly feels far richer than Arthur. “My mother. I know you think I’m an idiot, but if I know anything at all I learned it from her.” He props himself up on his elbows to peer up at Arthur’s profile in the moonlight. He can’t help but smile, and Arthur looks down at him and smiles back, just a bit. “She taught me how to read and write, and herblore, and how to use a loom, even though I’m not very good at it. We had a goat for a while.”

“You sound like a fine daughter.” Arthur is smiling truly now. “And what did you name the goat? Don’t think I don’t know you call _my_ horse Chestnut. Honestly, Merlin.”

“Hah.” Merlin had named the goat, but he won’t tell Arthur that _now._

“And your father?”

Merlin is not exactly embarrassed to be a bastard, but he hesitates to tell Arthur that. Arthur who can trace his family line back for ages and ages, just by stepping out of his room and looking at the tapestries. His room in his _castle._ “Don’t have one of those.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Arthur is very bad at apologies, and mostly Merlin feels poorly for bringing down their return to leivity.

“It’s just a silly tale my mother used to tell me when I asked,” he offered, “but she said she made a wish for me on Imbolc, and that Brigid answered her.”

“That’s… sweet.” Merlin looks at him keenly for deception, but he seems sincere. “So you were born on Imbolc?”

“No, I was born on Samhain. When I was little I liked to pretend that all the cakes and harvest dances were for me.” Truthfully Merlin still liked to pretend that.

“Your mother sounds kind.” His voice is a bit wistful, but his smile has returned, and is soft. The moment hovers in the air, and Merlin lays his head back down. “Why did you come to Camelot? Why not stay in Escetir?”

“My mother couldn’t continue my education any further, and I didn’t really fit in anyway.” he half answers. “And-” is it treason to speak poorly about a king to a prince? “Well. Cenred has less regard for his people than he ought to.”

Instead of admonishing him Arthur looks smug. He should have known. “Of course you would prefer Camelot, anyone would.” Merlin can see the moment that the worry returns to Arthur.

“I called the goat Fennel.” He says, instead of anything useful.

Arthur pretends to groan, but Merlin can see him bury his grin in his hands.

The next night, the men are jovial as they circle around the campfire once again, happy the creature that had caused all the trouble was dead, and that the afflicted man had lived. They jested that no one would be very impressed by the slaying of a newt, and Arthur laughed along with them.


	2. Merlin Fights Gravity

Merlin holds still as Gwen presses a green bolt of cloth against him in the marketplace. It’s a handsome color, but the fabric is too rough to be for Morgana. Still finer than anything he owns. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” No one can convey wide eyed innocence quite like Gwen, so Merlin doesn’t press her.

His arms are loaded with things for Gaius, but he gamely takes the basket she puts into his hands as she makes a purchase. It seems more true every day that his true path lays not as a secret (but dashing) sorcerer protecting the realm, but as a pack mule.

“Morgana said that Arthur said that _you_ said that you missed your mum. Will you visit her soon?” Gwen is the only person he knows who can talk faster than he can.

“I doubt it, I don’t think manservants get time off,” he teases. “Besides, I want to see what a proper Camelot feast looks like.”

“Ooh! It’s so lovely, you’ll see! The feast is _amazing_ \- the cooks really outdo themselves -and they bring in all these decorations, and there is a tournament, and the fires are never put out, and Audrey makes this cider, you haven’t ever tasted anything like it! There aren’t any,” she leans close to him and whispers, “fortune tellers or anything of course, but there _are_ the best cakes you have ever eaten in your _life!_ ” Her face is bright and joyful, and Merlin begins to feel excited as well.

“You mean we get to go to the feast?”

“Well, kind of? You know, the nobles have their fun and we have ours.” She winks at him and Merlin grins back at her. “We can all use some good cheer I think.” His smile turns sympathetic. He has taken potions to Morgana more frequently lately, and knows how deeply Gwen worries for her.

They part ways after they pass through the citadel gates, Gwen with a laugh as he nearly drops everything he is carrying in his attempt to wave goodbye to her.

“Arthur was looking for you,” Gaius doesn’t even look up from his cauldron. Merlin spills his armful onto a table already heaped full.

He knew it wasn’t likely, but he had hoped to have an afternoon to himself to look through his book and perhaps attempt a spell or two. He’d always secretly thought he had rather powerful magic, but actually learning spellwork was such a struggle had him beginning to think maybe not after all.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“It’s not my place - or yours - to question the prince, Merlin.”

He didn’t want a lecture, so he pretended to agree. The look on Gaius’s face told him he was not fooled.

It turned out Arthur mostly just wanted an audience to impress while he trounced his knights on ‘rough terrain’. The low hillside outside of the castle gates didn’t seem particularly rough, and Merlin speculated it had a lot more to do with getting outside the castle walls for a bit. Finding a seat under a tree where the forest began, he pretended to polish armor and watch the fights, while his mind mostly drifted to magic and maybe - just a bit - to the coming harvest feast.

No one was looking at him. He kept the armor in front of him with one hand, and let the other fall to his side and find a place in the earth. He cast his eyes about one more time to make sure the knights were all occupied, and let his magic flow from his fingertips.

He might not be a wonder at his actual spells yet, but he’d been able to do this ever since he was old enough to toddle after his mother in the garden.

A few shoots of wildflowers started to unfurl beneath his fingers, tickling him lightly as they grew to blossom. There might not be anything he can do for Morgana’s nightmares, but some fresh flowers might add some color to her rooms, and Gwen would probably give him that pleased look that made him feel ten feet tall. _Sweet dreams_ , he thinks and tries to push a bit of wellness for Morgana into the little buds, wishing he knew any healing.

Now _that_ would be a magic worth knowing.

With a sigh, he picks up the cloth again and gets back to work, turning his attention back to the bouts. Arthur is winning, as usual. He doesn’t even think the other men are faking to get into Arthur’s good books, either. Not that it would work, Merlin has learned. It seems unfair that he should be a handsome prince _and_ a talented swordsman.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees one of his flowers turn an envious red, mocking him, and he balks. He was supposed to be learning _better_ control here, not worse! He resolves to leave the red one where it is and never think on it again.

Truly Arthur ruins everything.

After the afternoon passes and they start to pack up Arthur approaches him. “Not bad, right?”

“Who? You? I’ve seen better,” but Arthur only rolls his eyes at him and thwacks him on the shoulder, knowing the lie for what it is.

“What are those?” He nods at the flowers that Merlin has bundled up in a messy bouquet.

“I’m not sure you would be familiar with them, sire, as they are not a sword, but these are called _flowers_.” They are a tiny sea of blues and purples _,_ and quite pretty. He refuses to acknowledge the lone red flower bobbing next to him in the breeze. It waves jauntily at him like a flag from where it is planted.

Arthur throws his hands into the air as though _Merlin_ is the difficult one. “I _mean_ , why have you spent all afternoon gathering up flowers like the ninny you are instead of doing something useful?”

“They’re for Morgana!” He defends, “You know she hasn’t been sleeping well. Gwen seemed worried earlier, I only thought it would be nice.”

At this Arthur’s face doesn’t change, but he _does_ help carry the armor back for a change, leaving Merlin a hand free to carry the flowers.

It doesn’t take long to find Morgana and Gwen, crossing paths even before Arthur has split away to go to his rooms. Both of them seem just as pleased with the gift as Merlin hoped.

“We thought they might brighten things up a bit!” Next to him, Arthur shuffles uncomfortably and makes a face, clearly not wanting to be included in doing something nice for Morgana.

She is as quick as always, and makes a special point to beam at him. “Why how thoughtful, Arthur - both of you, of course!” She puts on a production as though they were the finest roses from the palace gardens, fluffing them up and smelling them. “We’ll have to find a vase for these! I can keep one with me though.” She takes one of the buds and tucks it into her hair.

“Shall I take them, my lady?” Gwen’s eyes are curved into little happy crescents. Merlin grins back at her, and Morgana continues the circle to beam at him.

Arthur closes his eyes and mutters a prayer for patience, clearly sick of them all.

***

Barring one incident with a pooka and some blackberries, and one not-actually-magic illness in the lower town, the month continued much the same. The bounty of fresh wreaths and garlands seemed to never run out, the air felt crisp inside instead of drafty, the fires were roaring, and Merlin allowed his anticipation to grow. Even Arthur seemed to be getting swept up in the excitement, barely fussing at all when Merlin dragged him out of bed on Samhain.

“Harvest festival!” Merlin exclaimed.

“Tourney!” Arthur countered.

“Cake!”

“Girl.”

“Which girl?” Merlin questioned.

“No- you. Are. A. Girl. Who’d rather have sweets than a sword fight?” His voice was disbelieving.

“Anyone with a brain?”

“If you are implying what I know you are keep in mind I can still put you in the stocks while the feast is on. Poor, lonely little Merlin, looking into the the hall, nothing to eat, freezing his prodigious ears off.”

Merlin raises his chin, but is silent. He doesn’t think Arthur really _would_ , but he won’t chance it, even if Arthur’s smug face is intolerable.

The breakfast spread itself qualifies as a feast today in his opinion. “If you eat all of that you won’t even make it to the field, you won’t fit through your door.”

Arthur takes a very deliberate bite of a honeyed roll and follows it barely chewed with a bite of bacon from his other hand in a show of courtly manners. If only the ladies of the nobility could see him now. Merlin makes to grab a pear slice and gets swatted on the hand.

“Bold.”Arthur chides him, but doesn’t stop him the second time he tries.

“Do you think you’ll win today?” Merlin knows the answer, but also knows that once Arthur starts talking about himself he won’t mind as his breakfast is stolen right from under his nose.

“Of course I’ll win, Merlin.” True to form, he doesn’t stop him as a half of a plum finds its way to his hands.

“What sort of tourney is it, anyway?”

“Jousting later in the day, but the best bit will be the melee.” A seeded roll with butter disappears. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, you aren’t half as clever as you think.”

Merlin blinks guilelessly at him, and truly the spirit of the day favors him, as Arthur merely seems amused.

They depart for the field, where a boisterous crowd has already gathered. A man knocks into him and apologizes, rosy cheeked. “Things seem pretty… festive.”

“Ah, he’s been into Audrey’s cider already. You stay out of it! With your constitution I’d be writing a letter home to your mother tomorrow.” Arthur isn’t wrong, he’s a lightweight by any definition. “Come on, time to ready for the field.”

Merlin has been keeping an eye out all day for some horrible mischief or attack to ruin the celebrations, but for a change everything is fine - he barely knows what to do with himself. Instead allows himself to relax and watch Arthur parade around waving a sword.

“I was looking for you!” Someone pokes him in the side, making him jolt.

“Gwen!”

“Close your eyes,” she commands, “and hold out your hands, I have something for you!”

He does so immediately, and is rewarded with something soft. “Can I look now?”

“You can look! Happy birthday!” Maybe he is as soft hearted as Arthur says, because when he looks down and sees the green fabric from the market his eyes go a bit misty. It has been crafted into a shirt, with little bits of decorative embroidery darting along the neck in a crisp pattern, with a bird on each side. It’s nothing like the flowers she does for herself or for Morgana, but he’d recognize Gwen’s work anywhere. Well, except that one of the birds is more than a little lopsided. “Morgana did that one,” she whispers.

“Gwen, it’s wonderful, but it can’t be for me! It’s too much!” Something occurs to him. “Wait, this is for my birthday?”

“Of course! Well, and as a welcome to Camelot, long overdue.” Merlin doesn’t think birthdays are celebrated like this for peasants, even in Camelot.

“How did you even know?” He marvels, giving the soft fabric a squeeze. It feels as though it will be warm.

“Arthur told Morgana and she told me, and we both thought, well, we _all_ of us thought that maybe it might be nice! I know it must be hard to be in a new place, but we’re glad you’re here.” She coughs lightly, “I thought you might want to wear it to the feast, so I wanted to give it to you now, is it alright?”

“It’s more than alright, Gwen, I don’t know what to say.” He’s never owned anything so fine in all his life. He gets paid now, but it mostly sits in a box under his bed next to the magic book. Thinking about it like that makes him wonder if maybe he should buy a second box, one with a lock. “It’s perfect.”

“Don’t tell them I told, but Arthur and Morgana both put in for the fabric.”

Merlin looks over to the field, where Arthur is joyfully bashing another man around the head, unaccountably touched. This is one of the happiest days he can remember.

***

He goes to Morgana’s chambers wearing his new shirt, and can’t stop from foolishly patting at himself every so often. It’s _very_ soft and warm though, so he forgives himself. He needs to thank her.

Before he even gets the chance to knock, she is leaving, the very same flowers he had given her in her arms, fresh as the day he grew them. He’d know them anywhere - they still echo like his magic - so there is no mistake. He feels a frisson of ice go down his spine and chase away the warmth he had been savoring. It’s been a month since then, yet every blossom and bud looks as though they were still planted in the earth.

“Ah, Merlin, you’re wearing it!” She exclaims. Maybe Morgana doesn’t know how long cut flowers should thrive. “What do you think?” Surely if she was going to have him killed she wouldn’t be smiling at him like that. Surely. She must not know. Ladies probably don’t worry about that sort of thing.

“It’s great,” he croaks, weakly, “I love it.” Her smile turns a little quizzical, and he can barely think. “Are you going to the feast?” _Please don’t know_. He tries to look at her and suddenly gain the power to read minds. She seems cheerful enough, the dark purple that has been beneath her eyes is lighter, and she isn’t screaming for the guards.

“I am, of course,” She seems bemused, and he can’t stand this.

“Flowers?” Comes out of him, unbidden.

“I just thought it might be time for a change of color.”

“I can take them for you, if you want.” Take them right to a fire, or to the pigs to eat, _oh gods._

She gives nothing away in one direction or another, but she does press the flowers into his arms. “Thank you, Merlin. I embroidered this one, you know,” she lets her finger rest against the bird that sits on his collarbone.

“Thank you,” He knows his eyes are wide “I do love it. Very much.”

She passes a guard as she walks away, but doesn’t even look at him. Maybe she doesn’t know.

He doesn’t remember the walk back to his rooms, but he doesn’t have much time before he has to go to the feast and attend Arthur. All the joy has left him, only a jittery panic left in its wake.

He doesn’t realize how much he wants to stay here in Camelot until the possibility of having to flee occurs to him.

He has friends here, he thinks. _Morgana_ is his friend.

Even if she finds the flowers odd or unnatural that doesn’t mean she would jump straight to sorcery. He’ll just have to be extra _extra_ careful from now on, he resolves. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to go to the feast like he planned, and have maybe one too many sips of cider, and try one of the cakes that Gwen told him about. He wants to watch Arthur laugh until his face turns red when the knights get drunk and start embarrassing themselves.

He straightens up and runs his hand down the embroidery of his new shirt, pulls it away from his chest to look at the lopsided bird staring up at him. It’s actually quite a nice bird, he thinks.

She tried, for him.

A tear falls from his eye onto it, and he swipes at his cheeks, frustrated with himself. _Crybaby._

He makes himself take a drink of cold water, and after several deep breaths he heads out the door.

The feast is everything he thought it would be and more. Everything feels golden and lovely, and no guards come crashing in to arrest him. Arthur doesn’t say a word when he sees his new shirt, but Merlin knew he wouldn’t. He shows his kindness in other ways. Perhaps it’s his own melancholy speaking, but Merlin finds it a little sad. He knows Uther doesn’t reward kindness, and Arthur has learned to be quiet about it. But he is kind, Merlin thinks, Uther hasn’t been able to purge that. Morgana smiles at him and he smiles back, more sure.

Afterwards he does eat cake with Gwen. It’s unbelievably good. He doesn’t dare dance, but he does watch Gwen take some turns around the room. And perhaps he does drink one too many sips of cider, as he is _very_ tipsy when he is back in his own room.

He is so very, very tired, the worry pulling him down like a physical ache. He feels hot from the fires that burned so high all night, and he opens his little window for a breath of the cool night air. He lays wrong way around on his bed so as he tips his head back he can look up and see the moon.

His mind spins, as tired as he is. It’s so terrible to be afraid, and for all his magic it makes him feel utterly powerless.

He wishes for things to change in Camelot every day, but right now he just wishes to fly away. Just for a while. Quick as the little sprightly birds on his present. His fingers trace the little lopsided bird over and over, and the sky calls him up.

He wakes up the next morning in a tree, the white spires of the castle looking as rich as gold in the dawn sun.  



	3. Merlin Fights With a Tree

He doesn’t fall out of the tree, but is a near thing. His face presses up against the rough bark as he jerks awake, and he digs his fingers in as he wobbles dangerously. They are pink with the cold, and his panicked breath puffs out in front of him once, twice. He gets a pleasant waft of a sappy, woodsy smell. He determines to look downwards, and closes his eyes again immediately. He is far, far too high up to jump down. His arms feel like they are made of limp string, and his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and bees.

Arthur was right about the cider, damn him.

There doesn’t appear to be a clear path down, and it only occurs to him then to wonder how he might have gotten up here to begin with. He didn’t think he drank so much as to not remember the long walk into the woods. He can recall the feast clearly, and even afterwards with the rest of the castle staff, Gwen’s skirts twirling prettily as she dances. He got back to his room, too, and opened his window and looked at the moon and thought it might be nice-

_Oh._

He has a sudden and vivid waking nightmare wherein he pictures himself flapping lowly about Camelot, swooping at concerned citizens. His gangly arms spread wide under the bright moon as Arthur shoots arrows at him. But no, that probably didn’t happen.

Probably. He checks for arrow holes.

The forest is already up with the sun, and the birdsong is telling him -and loudly- what he already suspects. A vague memory of looking down on the houses of the city as he spiraled about the night sky comes to him. He spies a little redwing thrush hopping about on a branch in a neighboring tree. “I don’t suppose you know anything about this?” His voice sounds terrible, and his head throbs.

The bird peeps and he closes his eyes, miserable with the noise. Ugh. He’ll never touch another drink in his life, he vows.

Even to himself that sounds unlikely. It was only yesterday he made a vow to be extra _extra_ careful with his magic, and look how that turned out.

At least if he truly _was_ a bird no one would think twice about seeing his flight from the castle. Or if they did think it was odd behavior for a bird to be flitting about dead at night they would have no reason to think of _Merlin_ of all people. Also everyone was very, very drunk, so there was that.

His fear got all spent yesterday apparently, because he can’t muster any now. He’s mostly concerned with how to get out of the tree.

He concentrates and decides that if he became a bird once he can certainly do it again. A deep breath of the morning air fills his lungs. _Change._

Nothing happens.

Well, he didn’t think it would be that easy, anyway. He tries to remember the feeling of the sky under his wings, but gets distracted wondering what kind of bird he was. _Change_. He doesn’t think of himself as vain, but he hopes he was a pretty bird. _Change_. Maybe he can ask Gaius, since of course he doesn’t have a mirror. That would entail telling Gaius though, and he’s not sure he can bring himself to endure that lecture. Assuming he can turn into a bird at all. _Change._ It had come so easily last night, the magic close and free, unbridled.

 _Concentrate, Merlin._ He sighs, letting his eyes cast across the long shadows the rising sun spreads across the fields, glistening with morning dew. His temple presses against the tree’s trunk. At least the view is nice.

The thrush peeps again, and Merlin turns back to him. The tiny bird flaps his wings, showing off his red spots before taking to the sky easily. So easily, he thinks, as natural as breathing. Between one flap of the bird’s wings and another Merlin feels as though he is a soap bubble popping, a massive shiver coursing through him, and he falls out of the tree, trying madly to right himself as he tumbles.

He catches himself on the air, and his new little heart is beating madly against his chest as he flaps his wings, but he hits the ground nonetheless with a soft thump. _Oof._ He is stunned, but more from the shock of his magic actually working rather than the impact.

His view from the forest floor isn’t quite as pleasant as from up in the tree, but at least he’s down. He debates for half a moment between attempting at once to change back and just making the humiliating -and bootless- walk back to Camelot, or attempting to _fly_ once more. However, the choice is an easy one.

His panic has by now faded entirely, and instead he just feels a surge of reckless joy. How _fun!_ He hops up and down on his new feet, unable to keep himself still just from the sheer excitement of it. This is exactly how his magic is supposed to feel, he knows it in his bones. His tiny bird bones, he marvels. He tries to twist and look at himself, but can’t see much at all.

There was once a summer that Merlin had been old enough to spend time away from his mother but was too little for much work. He hadn’t even made friends with Will yet, and was bored and lonely. And so, despite the warnings for him to be careful with his magic, he had wanted to do something that none of the other village boys could do. He had spent hours and hours attempting to fly, jumping off of logs in the woods, watching the birds enviously. It had just seemed like the most fun a boy could possibly have.

And he was _right_ , his mind was screaming, as he tore through the air gracelessly. He was _right!_

He cavorts around the sky for the entire distance between the forest and the castle, taking about ten times as long as he needs to. He almost crashes a few times in his over-eagar and daring swooping, but in the end he manages to land on his windowsill in one piece. Thankfully it was still open, Gaius must not have checked on him, too early still.

Merlin shuts his window behind himself with his boring human hands. He looks them over, still unable to quite believe that just an instant ago they were wings. Yesterday seems as though it was years and years ago, and this is a new age entirely. A new morning, new beginning, new world! He’s never felt so pleased with himself, and he can’t seem to stop smiling.

His room is freezing from having been open to the air all night, and he throws himself onto his bed and buries himself in his covers. His head is still pounding, but it’s far easier to ignore now. He doesn’t think he could possible get any sleep, but perhaps he can rest a bit before he has to go about his day. Go about his day as though nothing had changed - he doesn’t know how he’ll manage it. His face _must_ be radiating that he has an incredible and wonderful secret.

He tries to look serious, but in his room by himself it just makes him smile wider, feeling silly.

He feels as though he barely has closed his eyes, but the sun’s position has changed when Gaius knocks at his door, “Merlin, it’s long past time to get up.”

He springs out of bed and regrets it, swaying a bit, his head not forgiving him yet. He shuts his door behind him carefully and quietly, no need to make it worse.

“Merlin, what is in your hair?” Gaius asks - rather judgmentally, Merlin thinks. It’s not as though _Gaius_ can turn into a bird, making his opinion irrelevant. Everyone’s opinions shall now be irrelevant to him unless they can turn into birds, he decides. He puts a hand to his hair and feels a leaf.

“For your information I spent a lot of time in a tree last night.” He says, not finding it in him to feel embarrassed.

“A _tree_?!” Arthur exclaims, and Merlin finds it in him to feel embarrassed. Oh no. He’s standing by the door, and in his haze Merlin had not noticed him. His blue eyes are wide and bright and his grin is spreading across his face already. Merlin closes his eyes, dreading what he knows is coming. He laughs uproariously, and by the time Merlin opens his eyes again Arthur is practically bent in half, gripping the doorframe to keep himself up.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks hopelessly.

Arthur dabs at his eyes, mirthful. “I just wanted to see how bad your hangover was, that it kept you from your duties.” He strides over to Merlin and plucks a twig out of his hair. He spins it between two fingers, the tiny yellow leaf on it twisting back and forth. “I was going to yell at you, but this is far better. I’m keeping this.” He pockets the twig and turns around to leave.

“Where are you going now, didn’t you need something?”

“Yes, I _need_ to tell people that Merlin got so drunk he crawled into a tree!” He exclaims. “Leon! Leon!” he calls, practically jogging away from the doorway, leaving Merlin to slump down into sitting at the table, setting his head face down to hide.

Gaius pats him sympathetically on the shoulder and sets a bowl of warm porridge next to him. “Eat, it will help. I could tell you you did this to yourself, you know.”

“But you won’t?” Merlin peeks at him.

“Every young man learns this lesson I think.” He clears a few herbs up and looks as though he has more to say. “I’m glad you have friends here, Merlin. I hope you had a fun evening.”

“I think I did, actually.” A turbulent one, full of fear and then freedom, but he doesn’t wish to tell Gaius that just yet. It feels too close to his heart to share with anyone.

“I’m glad. You work hard, you know. Arthur may not know what you’ve done for Camelot since you’ve arrived, but I do.”

Suddenly feeling shy, Merlin blushes and eats some of his porridge, pleased.

It doesn’t even bother him later when he’s heard the sixth joke about a Merlin flying up a tree, more right than they know. Audrey especially seems to consider it a badge of honor for her cider, so he lets the good-natured teasing roll off of him. Like water off a bird’s back, he thinks to himself, quietly amused.

***

It’s truly past autumn now and into winter, and Merlin wonders if they will get any snow. It would be unusual, but the deep cold is holding firmly this year. The sun is white and small, and the nights stretch endlessly while the days seem to shrink ever shorter.

He and Arthur get along now, he mostly thinks, but this might be the first time Merlin is grateful to be in his service - his rooms are _always_ warm, and since they spend so much of their time together this means Merlin gets to bask by the fire like a lizard. Well, Merlin doesn’t think he basks like a lizard, but Arthur assures him that he does. He doesn’t kick him out into the cold either though.

So much of life seems to be in a lull this winter, driven inside by the harsh chill. The days bleed into each other, and Merlin finds himself somewhat at odd ends. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Evil must be hibernating as well, for nothing happens for weeks at a time. He practices his magic, when he is alone.

Sometimes late at night, with only his own mind for company, he thinks on what Morgause told Arthur all that while ago. There is a very distant bit of farmland he can see between two buildings if he looks through his window, and when he is very anxious he looks at it and hopes that come springtime it will be full and green.

He has learned a handful of new spells from his book, and he can switch between human and bird with a thought now - but hasn’t managed to turn into anything else, either. And he has tried!

Wouldn’t it be luxurious to turn into a cat and sleep the whole winter away?

Gwen and Morgana pass much the time in her chambers and sometimes he joins them, taking turns reading aloud, or making up tales of their own. Gwen is making fantastic headway on all her projects, and Merlin wishes he was as devoted as she is. He takes comfort with the fact that Morgana is in the same boat with him, restless. Despite that, he hasn’t had to bring her a potion for nightmares in _ages_ though - which heartens both Gwen and himself.

He’s learned he doesn’t have to do Arthur’s laundry himself a while ago now, but he still occasionally visits the laundresses anyway to help. Cecily had a healthy fat baby, and he got to hold it for a while, which was nice. They sing songs while they work sometimes and he’s never too embarrassed to sing along, and that’s nice too.

One of Arthur’s hunting dogs has whelped, and he visits the kennels and vows to never tell Cecily that the puppies that nibbled at his pale fingers were far cuter than the new baby.

He sighs. If it has to be cold, at least a bit of snow would be pretty to look at.

He sighs again, more deliberate.

“What now?” Arthur doesn’t look up from his desk, where Merlin knows he has only been pretending to work for the past hour.

“Aren’t you bored?”

“No, Merlin, some of us have jobs to do.” He sounds self important, even for Arthur.

“I do have a job, I work for you, you prat!”

“Do you? I haven’t seen you do any work, so that can’t be it. Hm.” He leans back in his chair, frowning, “A mystery.”

“The only mystery is how you can say that with a straight face.” Merlin pushes away from the window. “Do you want to go outside for a bit?”

Arthur pretends to consider it, but he’s also the only person in the castle who feels more cooped up than Merlin. Without waiting for an answer, Merlin pulls open the wardrobe to find another tunic to layer and the warmest fur-lined cloak that he can. After he’s dressed, Arthur tosses a second cloak onto Merlin’s head, making him blind. It’s astonishing how Arthur can’t manage to be nice and share without simultaneously behaving like a tosspot.

The grass is frosty and crunching under their boots, and Arthur takes it as a challenge to sneak up on Merlin as many times as possible. It works far too many times, to his chagrin. _Not this time_ , he thinks, only to shriek a moment later when a cold gauntleted finger finds his sensitive ribs under the cloak.

Even though it is winter, it feels wonderful to be outside for a change. As they amble nearer the forest Merlin can hear a woodlark singing.

“Look, starlings.” Arthur nods. “Bit early in the day for them.” He’s watching them warily.

It is odd. They pass and rise in a great murmuration, and the woodlark stops its song.

They are several lengths away from the woods, and so they have plenty of distance to see a dark haired man burst out of them, falling once and heaving back to his feet, chased by a great animal. It’s two or maybe three times as tall as a man, easily, with the head of a bird of prey and the body of a beast. It’s massive wingspan is caught briefly in the treeline, the only reason the man gains ground.

Merlin is only grateful that since they had left with no company that Arthur is wearing his armor and sword, as he doesn’t hesitate to run forward.

“Go back to town and alert the guards, have them come and send for the knights!” He shouts, already sprinting with his sword drawn.

Merlin would never leave him, but he does turn back to town for a look. They have not gone so far from the gates of the lower town, and the beast is huge and eye catching. Indeed, he sees red capes breaking away from their posts already.

He doesn’t have much time if he doesn’t want to be seen.

Arthur has already managed to get himself between the monster and the man, unmoving and stalwart. It lunges for him, once, twice, and Merlin has only closed half the distance between them. His sword falls across it’s beak, which it does not seem to feel at all.

It had crashed through the trees, and Merlin is thankful, for it takes almost no effort to bring one of the creaking giants down straight onto it.

Arthur is too keen to let the opportunity pass, and as it is brought low he strikes it quickly in the eye, only for his sword to glance off it as though it were nothing. In his shock he is almost stuck through by one of its talons, but the stranger has pulled him back in time. The man’s sword is out as well now, and he stands side by side with Arthur despite his injury.

Perhaps this in addition to the tree is enough to cause pause however, for with one horrible screech it turns back into the woods. It is so loud that Merlin feels he will shake apart at the sound of it, covering his ears. The trees sway and shake in its wake, but he loses sight of it quickly - whatever it is, it is uncannily fast.

“I _told_ you to run and call the guards,” Arthur’s eyes are hard as flint when he turns to Merlin. “You could have been killed,” he paces a step, paces back. “Idiot!” He takes a step towards him, jaw clenched.

“They’re coming already, look,” he tilts his chin back towards Camelot. “I wasn’t going to leave you, you prat,” but Arthur’s eyes don’t move from his face.

“And what did you think you would do? You would be nothing more than a toothpick to it! Have some _sense_ , Merlin, you don’t even carry a sword!”

Next to him, the stranger interrupted, “I am Lancelot, and I thank you both for the aid,” at which Arthur sent him a withering look.

“Don’t encourage him.” He demands.

“Oh, you need to get to Gaius!” Merlin realizes. Lancelot’s tunic is wet with blood, high on his side. The guards as well as a pair of knights on horseback who must have been near the gate finally arrive, and Arthur breaks off to them, still fuming, leaving Merlin to offer an arm to the man.

“Thank you, really. I thought I would meet my end.”

“What _was_ that thing?” Merlin asked, helping him take a few staggering steps towards the city.

“I don’t know. It-” a great breath leaves him. “It nearly destroyed Greenswood. I could do nothing against it. I wanted to come to warn people, but I fear instead it must have followed me. I only hope I have not brought more death with me.”

“The knights will help, I’m sure.” Merlin tries to be reassuring, but he can remember very plainly how useless Arthur’s sword was.

They head towards Camelot in a group, watchful, but unfollowed.

Merlin's nerves don't settle as they make the journey back to the city - Arthur will have to speak to his father about this.


	4. Merlin Fights a Griffin

He has barely seen Arthur for more than a quarter hour at a time for the past fortnight. All winter Merlin has practically lived in his pocket, but now he brings breakfast, dresses the prince and is dismissed. Arthur has flatly and uncompromisingly refused to take him along on the unsuccessful scouting for the beast, no matter how Merlin begs. Not even the most sympathetic of Arthur’s knights is willing to budge and defy the prince on this.

Of course he flies after him anyway, but Arthur doesn’t know that.

It’s not as though it makes a difference though, he bitterly admits.

No matter how quickly the knights track what they now know is a Griffin, they are never able to confront it. Leaving the livestock alone, it instead plucks off anyone who dares venture to far from their village.

It is in a way fortunate that this should be happening now. Many people have been able to stay indoors, their food stores already built for the winter - but herdsmen, fishermen, hunters… they had little choice. Even the rare unfortunate and unaware traveller, never to reach Camelot. A warning from the city has been issued, but to some outside it must be the risk of a quick death or a slow starvation, unable to survive with no livelihood.

In spite of this, Merlin is almost grateful that they have not crossed paths with it, even though it makes him feel wretched. Sword and spear alone will do nothing - there is no way to slay it.

Not without magic. Uther would not hear of it, sending the knights out daily, a hopeless task.

If it meant protecting his friends and stopping all the senseless slaughter he would risk discovery without a thought, but he could admit to himself that he was still afraid. He had fought a few creatures of magic already, but nothing like a Griffin. What if he failed? It was doubtful that there were many other sorcerers idling around Camelot just waiting to jump into the fight. Would the Griffin keep killing people endlessly?

He is _exhausted_.

Following Arthur in the day, helping Gaius research long past the sun setting - hoping fruitlessly for any weakness to be discovered. Barely finding time to eat or sleep. Upon Merlin’s insistence Lancelot has taken his bed as he heals, and it makes him feel spoiled as he tosses and turns in his blankets on the floor. There have been plenty of years he had slept just _fine_ on a floor - how quickly he has adjusted to being coddled! He misses his bed fiercely, especially now, as he walks through the castle in the dead of night- fetching another certain to be useless book.

Luckily it seems even Geoffrey needs to sleep sometimes, but despite that Merlin finds himself tip-toeing into the library. He half expects the librarian to leap out at him from where he may still be hiding under his great desk, lying in wait for miscreants. He looks just in case, but no.

The moonlight pouring through the ornate windows of colored glass lends everything a dreamy cast, and Merlin allows himself a moment to savor it. He inhales deeply, letting some of his tension roll out of his shoulders. Nowhere in the castle smelled quite like the library.

It is perfect stillness all around him as the castle sleeps, and he feels as though the only soul who stirs in the whole of Camelot tonight is his own.

Which is of course when he turns around a bookcase, fingers trailing over the tomes, that he is startled to see Arthur. Half risen from his chair, piles of slim books spread across the table in front of him. His face is set in stone, and while he relaxes when he sees it is only Merlin, his eyes do not lose their grimness.

He looks somber in the blue light, and even more tired than Merlin feels. He purses his lips, sits back down, and says nothing, only continuing to read whatever it is that drove him from his own warm bed. Merlin cranes his neck to see, but Arthur flickers his eyes back up in a warning. A secret.

Knowing better than to press his luck with this new strange mood, Merlin delves back into the stacks, looking for his own quarry. He can see Arthur through the gaps in the shelves and the books as he walks however- and between his curiosity and his concern he cannot stop his attention from returning to him and noting something new each time he reappears. His hair has gotten a bit longer than is usually allowed, hanging in front of his eyes as he reads. The bridge of his nose has some color from being outside so many days in a row, wind bitten. His knuckles look bruised.

He picks up another of those slim tomes, compares them, and then another. Looks up again, and with uncanny accuracy their eyes meet once more. _Caught you_ , he seems to say.

Merlin hastily ducks, and immediately feels absurd and childish, pressing his forehead against his knees. He can hear Arthur’s huff of amusement, and the creak of a chair.

“Help me put these away.” His voice is low, quiet, and as subdued as Merlin has ever heard it.

When he comes to help hm gather up the books, this time Arthur doesn’t stop him looking. Ledgers, and from the variety of ages of the bindings, spreading back years. Merlin has never once been afraid to speak to Arthur, but he doesn’t know how to break this odd fragile silence, and so he says nothing. He loads his arms full, and there are still more and more across the large table. Arthur must have been here for hours.

The prince flips through one before finally closing it and adding it to the pile in Merlin’s arms. “Geoffrey keeps very meticulous records.”

“And he lets you _see_ them?” He tries to be playful.

“I am the prince, Merlin,” usually he would be teasing back, but he just seems weary.

“Is- I mean… is everything alright?” he pauses, and when he gets no answer, “Are _you_ alright?”

Arthur doesn’t reply quickly, and Merlin is not reassured. “Of course.”

He doesn’t like this one bit.

This pensive and unmoved Arthur is not one that Merlin has met before. It causes him to feel as though he has somehow unintentionally intruded on a secret that Arthur has kept away from him. Why was he here, what was he doing? Merlin cannot fathom it. It’s unfair. He hates how it makes him feel unaccountably small and cast aside. Deep in his gut he squirms - uncomfortably aware of his own secrets.

Of course he doesn’t know everything about Arthur.

Arthur doesn’t know everything about him, either.

But he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

They put the ledgers away in the silent library side by side, but Merlin no longer finds the quiet peaceful. He lets his arm press against Arthur’s, not sure which of them he is trying to comfort. He’s warm, and Merlin lets himself linger. He feels Arthur tense, then release a gentle sigh, and finally a small pressure against his own arm in return. They stay that way for a long moment. Arthur’s hand brushes against his own as he turns away.

“Goodnight, Merlin. Go to sleep.”

Merlin watches him go, and eventually gives his head a shake. He pulls his fingers through his hair with a sharp tug and lets out a heavy breath. The ledgers look neat and tidy put away, an endless stretch of Camelot’s history.

He needs to find that tome for Gaius still.

Every volume that they go through has said the same things about the Griffin, if they say anything at all. In their desperation they seek ever more vague and esoteric ones, but Merlin doubts he’ll find anything new tonight.

He climbs a ladder, the dust from the top shelf making his nose crinkle. In the streams of light he sees motes, floating as if caught in a swift draft, unmistakably pulled into a strange looking crack in the wall.

_What’s this?_

He sneezes, slips, and finds a secret room.

***

Duties come the next morning just like usual with no regard for the way Merlin feels about it. He has done something horrible and unforgivable that would get him tossed out of Camelot. Just as surely as all the other horrible and unforgivable crimes he commits. Such as fetching the prince’s breakfast while being a sorcerer, shining the prince’s boots while being a sorcerer, or breathing the prince’s air while being a sorcerer.

Any which way you look at it, he is now a criminal. A brigand. He can never return home to his mother again. He has _stolen a book._

Do they burn people for stealing books?

Geoffrey probably would light the pyre himself.

 _Just the one book though_ , he reasons. The room had _so many_. And not just books! It was all he could do to only take a _single_ book, and he should be applauded for his restraint! He’ll need to go back.

Herein lies his new problem.

The library was hardly ever unattended, and not for long when it was. He also needed to sleep occasionally, and he was already run off his feet. He can’t smuggle magical artifacts that are as tall as he is through the castle - there simply isn’t enough room under his bed, for one thing. So he’ll have to return and study _in_ the secret room, but there isn’t _time_.

To top it off, Geoffrey would never let Merlin of all people have full run of the library, either. He’s kept an eye on Merlin and his ‘sticky fingers’ ever since he had come in after eating and forgotten to wash his hands. True in both senses now, of course, but he won’t be caught dead admitting it to Geoffrey.

What he doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him though. He could sneak in without using the noisy mechanical entrance… if he were smaller.

He wishes any of his attempts to turn into other animals had come to success. Geoffrey would never allow a bird to roost in the library and damage the books, but he wouldn’t notice a _spider_ in there. Cobwebs abound already, he shivers. He doesn’t particularly _want_ to be a spider. What if someone stepped on him? He’ll eat berries happily as a bird, but he draws a line at eating bugs.

Perhaps the larger issue is that he doesn’t think his bird form can fit through the narrow cracks surrounding the secret entrance anyway, making it a moot point.

“What is small, and agile, and maybe has hands?” Merlin asked Lancelot, who was too polite to be alarmed at being woken up in such a manner.

Lancelot ran a hand down his face, mostly still asleep. “Is this a riddle?” He asked through a yawn.

“What is small, and agile, and maybe has hands?” Merlin asked Arthur, who was _not_ as polite as Lancelot. He was used to being woken up in a variety of annoying ways, however. Merlin liked to keep him on his toes.

“What? Why?”

The warlock had not thought this far ahead.

“Ah… It’s a riddle?”

“I don’t know, what is it? Actually, I don’t care.” He put his head back down on his pillow and prayed for patience, as he did every morning, before hauling himself out of bed. As a reward for his initiative, Merlin offered him a tray of his favorite foods and barely tried to steal any. Neither of them mention the library.

“What is small, and agile, and maybe has hands?” Merlin asked Gwen and Morgana, as he passed them in the hall.

“A stoat?” Morgana offered, bemused, even though she looks a bit ill.

“Oh, is it a harvest mouse?” Gwen asked.

“Maybe.” Merlin continued on his busy way, leaving two confused women in his wake.

“Wait!” Morgana calls after him. He turns back, and she looks torn. “Nevermind. Just a fancy.” He gives her a moment, but nothing more comes. Gwen puts a hand on her arm, and they talk lowly, ignoring him.

When he returns to his rooms, Lancelot is standing, being guided through some stretches by Gaius. He is beaming.

“You’ll have your bed back tonight I think! Gaius has declared me well again.” Merlin is glad his new friend is healed, but he has come to enjoy Lancelot’s company - even if it means sleeping on the floor. He can’t study his new stolen book with him there, though, either. He immediately feels heartless.

“Where will you go though? Surely you won’t leave Camelot?”

“No, I can’t imagine leaving while the Griffin is still out there,” he hesitates. “Do you think that Prince Arthur might accept me into his service? I would fight, if he will have me.”

“Oh! You’d be amazing, I’m sure!” He had seen Lancelot fight only once before, and even through injury his bravery and skill had been unmistakable. “That’s a fantastic idea!”

“I am afraid it’s not one that can come to anything, boys.” Gaius stops them before their merriment gets out of hand. “King Uther has the final say, and without the appropriate lineage you will not be permitted into knighthood.”

At this Lancelot’s face falls, and the injustice of it lights Merlins temper. “That’s not fair! Why shouldn’t he be able to fight!”

“He can fight as a guard, but knighthood is restricted to the nobility.” Gaius doesn’t make the laws, he knows, but he’s unplacated. “For what it is worth, I am sorry.”

“It is not of your doing,” Lancelot assures him sadly.

Merlin steps forwards and leans over the table, still in a fury. “What if we just _say_ you’re nobility, from far away? He can’t know every noble in all the kingdoms!”

“Don’t even _think_ it, foolish boy!” Gaius silences him harshly with a glare.

“It’s not fair!” He mulishly insists.

“Enough! It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Lancelot steps between them, arms raised, “Arthur already knows how I came to be here, from when he questioned me about the Griffin, don’t you remember? Gaius is right. As much as I desire it, I do not have to be a knight in order to defend people. I won’t run, even if there is no promise of knighthood at the end.”

“But…no,” Merlin feels the wind leave his sails, “it’s your dream, you said so.”

“That’s true,” he trails off, “but I cannot do nothing, just because it might not come true. I still have a good sword arm, and there is still need of it.”

“You’re an uncommonly good man, Sir Lancelot. The king doesn’t know what he’s missing. Do you still want to find Arthur? We can catch him if we hurry.”

They do arrive in time, barely.

Arthur is mounting Llamrei as they approach, and Lancelot runs ahead to speak to him, dodging through horses. Merlin nervously watches, straining his patience by allowing them privacy, biting his lip. After some discussion his new friend bows roughly and smiles before breaking away, looking back at him in victory.

Merlin smiles back, but instead of following him he lopes up to Arthur.

“He’s a good man,” he says up at the prince.

“Indeed, he is. Certain to be a credit to Camelot. I’ve sent him to be outfitted,” Arthur nods towards the armory, “I’m sure he’s eager to stretch his legs, but I’ll have to test him before he’s given assignment.”

“Lancelot wants to be a knight, you know,” Merlin has the vague impression that it’s rude to volunteer this on behalf of someone who is not there to speak for themselves. “He shouldn’t be discounted just by virtue of his birth if he is capable. He would serve you.”

“It is not up to him, or even to me, it is the king’s law,” His tone is warning.

“But he could do so much good! If you’d just _let_ him!” Merlin realizes two things at once. That he has not shed his temper from earlier, the embers stoking easily to fire again - and also that he might not solely be angry on behalf of Lancelot. He continues fervently, “Why won’t you let me come with you! I’ve gone with you to battle all the time before!”

“This is not before! This is now, and it is my decision!” Arthur is clearly straining to not raise his voice and call the attention of the crowd of knights around them. He leans down, face tight “You stay here, and that is final.”

Looking into his eyes, with the bustling knights all around him, Merlin has yet one more horrible realization to make. “You don’t think you’ll kill it.” Arthur clenches his jaw and dismounts Llamrei, “Then why-?”

“And do what instead? Cower in my castle while my people are killed? _Eaten_?” He is very close to Merlin’s face, his voice low and tight. “I will not abandon them. The only hope is that you and Gaius are wrong, and it can die by our hands.”

“We might still find something-”

“Perhaps, but-”

“Let me come with you- I can help!” Merlin interrupts frantically.

Arthur sighs, but does not relent. “You are by far the worst servant I have ever seen, but you have never once given me cause to doubt your loyalty. Merlin… I will not see you wasted on this.” It is a far more gentle refusal, but a refusal nonetheless. He whistles sharply, and gets the attention of the stable master. “Do not allow him a horse,” he orders.

“ _What!? Arthur!_ ”

“Do not test me, not on this. Stay here, and stay safe.” And just like that, Merlin is left behind.

Feeling wretched and abandoned he casts his eyes around for Lancelot. But no, he is alone. The knights filter around him as they leave the gates, red capes billowing out behind them.

***

He cannot bring himself to follow just yet. He will. But he needs just a moment to allow his twisting insides to settle. He’s hidden himself on the battlements, watching the knights get ever smaller into the distance until they disappear.

He hates fighting with Arthur. If the prince knew about his magic would he let him come along and slay the Griffin before he arrested him for treason? Would he kill him? Send him away? Merlin cannot predict what he might do, and so he says nothing. However, whether Arthur knows it or not Merlin _does_ understand duty.

Maybe he’s just a servant, even if he’s one with a secret - but he cannot abandon Camelot either. Not when he might be the only one who can stop this.

He’s felt sorry for himself for weeks now, and he’s had enough of it!

He stands and checks to see if anyone is around to see him take flight. Instead what he finds is far more alarming. What seems to be Lancelot on a horse at full gallop, tearing through the distance towards the knights.

_What?_

Gwen runs out into the square, watching him go, her hands pressed to her heart. Morgana is only a few steps behind her, looking distraught.

**_What?_ **

Something about their demeanor gives him a rush of urgent fear. It takes him suddenly, and tells him there isn’t any time. Before he can think any further on it he throws himself into the sky. He’s wrung his hands enough already.

He looks to the distance, and with his sharp eyes he can see the canopy of the forest shaking ominously. _Oh no, oh no no no!_ If Arthur dies because Merlin was too busy throwing a fit to be useful he will never forgive himself. He’ll never complain about the prat again if only he is still alive!

He presses himself to fly faster, faster, but it is Lancelot who reaches the treeline first. Merlin is not far behind him, losing ground as he ungainly dodges branches. There are splashes of red across the ground in front of him. _Please be alive._

The Griffin seems impossibly larger than he remembers, but Lancelot doesn’t give any pause as he charges it. It seems to happen in an instant. Merlin flies low to the ground, crashing and rolling through the underbrush, unable to keep his feet under him as he takes his own form once again to cast his spell. He hasn’t even yet stopped his graceless tumble across the frozen forest floor, but he tries to concentrate as he shouts, _“Bregdan anweald gafeluec!”_

A blue flame catches and spreads on Lancelot’s spear, just in time. The Griffin is struck true, and with a final screech crashes to the ground, and is still.

From his heap on the ground, Merlin releases the spell and lets his head fall back, breathless. He needs to find Arthur. His body feels like one giant bruise, but he drags himself up to sitting. Lancelot is circling back, his horse shaking with exertion and his handsome face stunned. The Griffin is dead. If this shall be his end at least it was worth it.

But Lancelot only dismounts, and offers him a hand. “Thank you,” he says, simply.

“We need to find Arthur,” His own voice is weak. Now that the worst danger is over, Merlin finds himself feeling stunned and out of body. All of his adrenaline has left him, and he struggles to stay upright - but he needs to find Arthur. He has to have been in time. His head throbs with each frantic beat of his heart. _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._ Lancelot follows him and between them they find some who yet still live. Camelot will feel this loss, though. Sir Robert’s unmoving face looks back at him, accusing.

Finally, Arthur - breathing. Merlin sinks to his knees next to him. “He can’t see me,” he says, but doesn’t move. Lancelot comes up beside him. “He can’t know I was here.”

“Then go,” he puts his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I’ll stay. Send the guards, whoever else can come. I will not speak of what I saw.” Merlin turns his face up to him, sees his sincerity, “You have my word.”

Merlin swallows roughly. At some point he has taken Arthur’s hand, and it is a struggle to release it. He sluggishly gets to his feet. “Will you help me up?”

“You’re already standing,” Lancelot looks concerned, and raises his hand to check if perhaps Merlin has hit his head.

“Oh, no, I mean,” and he does a sort of wiggly gesture, and turns into a bird, landing himself on Lancelot’s gloved hand. He hopes he gets the message. Merlin doesn’t have the strength to get in the air from the ground without a little push.

Lancelot figures it out eventually.


	5. Merlin Fights his Fear

This had been the longest day of his life. That seemed to keep happening in Camelot, as though he were being mocked.

 _You think_ this _is the longest day of your life? Wait until tomorrow!_

He didn’t see Arthur again until late in the evening, long hours past dusk. The prince had been pulled away as soon he had returned victorious. At least he _had_ returned, and under his own power. Camelot would be holding vigil for many good men, lost too early. Yet the only emotion Merlin could find was an ugly sort of gratefulness that Arthur survived where they hadn’t.

Arthur, who didn’t know he had magic to defend himself. If he had feared seeing Merlin’s face among the dead even half as much… well, he no longer could muster a shred of resentment at how they had parted at the gates. When had he become so fond?

Merlin felt so sore and weary as he readied the rooms that he found himself as thankful for his magic in filling and heating the prince’s bath as he was for the Griffin slaying. Two equally herculean tasks. He had fallen harder than he knew, and his knee was swollen and turning a mottled blue and purple already. A deep gash tore straight through the leg of his trousers, so there was no hiding it. Maybe he could mend it. More to do. Later. Much later.

It was worth standing through the throbbing to see Arthur moving about his chambers again though, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave until he was certain Arthur was tucked into bed with the fluffy blankets pulled up to his chin.

 _Nanny goat_ , Arthur had called him, blue eyes half mast. Maybe so.

Now he loitered outside the physician’s rooms with his hand flat on the door, waiting to push it inwards, but unable to force himself. He didn’t doubt Lancelot’s word, but he just… didn’t want to talk about this. He only wanted to go to bed, and sleep a full night.

There would be no helping it.

But as he enters the main room he is welcomed by silence. Gaius is not here - tending to injuries sustained today no doubt. Merlin is not sure if he’s grateful or not. He wishes his mother was here. There is just a slim bit of flickering candlelight from behind his door, open a crack. Lancelot sat at the foot of the bed, and stood as Merlin shuffled inside.

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but Lancelot’s face was only open and sympathetic - there was no scorn or fear to be found. He was too wrung out to feel much of anything other than a bland relief and a desire for the bed.

“You’re hurt,” Lancelot nodded towards his knee with wide eyes, “you need to lie down.”

_Blessings on this man._

With that he took Merlin by the elbow with a gentle grip and helped him maneuver onto the bed. He’s propped up against the headboard and every inch of his body protests, over-sensitive and aching. Lancelot has to take off his boots for him.

“We don’t have to speak of this now, if you need to rest.”

“No. No, it’s fine, I think we ought to,” Lancelot deserved an explanation at the very least. “I don’t really know where to start though. ‘Thank you’ is probably first I think.”

“You saved my life, and the lives of all who the Griffin would have killed besides. I don’t think you owe me any thanks for that.”

“It was you who actually made the charge though, and you couldn’t have known I would be there with magic. That was just you,” It strikes him how similar Arthur and Lancelot were in that way, “you were very brave. I mean- I mean thank you for not telling. On me. For the magic.” So strange to say it out loud.

Lancelot sits carefully on the edge of the bed, “Magic isn’t banned elsewhere, you must know that. I just… I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why Camelot? Do you have nowhere else to go?”

He is no longer sure how to answer that question. It has not even been a full year since he arrived, and in that amount of time so much has changed. There is the reason he came to Camelot, to learn to control his magic from a trusted friend of his mothers. There is the reason _not_ to go to Cendred - where he would use magic, but only as the war-minded king saw fit. He didn’t want to be a weapon for a man like him, for any man. More important than either of these is why he stays in Camelot now. His friends are here.

Arthur is here, who has surprised him over and over. Whose well of bravery and devotion is endless, who would never abandon his people - and who Merlin has grown to care for far more than he ever thought possible. Morgana, with her sharp wit and sense of justice and effortless nobility. Gwen, maybe the kindest and most generous person he has ever met. Gaius, who welcomed him and cares for him as though he were his own kin. “I have people here,” he starts, “that I care about. Maybe I could have gone somewhere else, but not anymore. And-well, more and more _things_ keep happening. Magic things. And no one else will help. So,” he trails off awkwardly.

“You’re an uncommonly good man, Sir Merlin,” Lancelot smiles at him, and Merlin ducks his head shyly, “The king doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He looks down at his lap, “It sits poorly with me to take credit for your work.”

“No! You did just as much, honestly, and the king would-”

“I know exactly what the king would do,” Lancelot stops him, “and so I will say it was a lucky strike. Only luck, nothing more, I swear it to you. It just doesn’t feel fair is all. You might have had something to say about that just earlier today”

“Hah.”

“If you would permit me, I do have a question,” his tone lighter as Merlin nods, “I’ve met sorcerers once or twice before in my travels, but none that could change form. I admit there is much in the world I do not know, but I’ve never even heard of such a thing - how did you learn to do that?”

“You might be disappointed in me, it was mostly an accident.”

“How does one become a bird on accident?” He’s incredulous.

“Well, it was harvest festival, and I had a bit to drink, and I thought it might be fun to fly,” he does not mention his fear and heartsickness that had driven him that night, instead choosing to enjoy the look on Lancelot’s face, “It was, by the way. _Is_. Fun to fly.” He grins sleepily.

“I imagine so.”

“You are right to be jealous!” he teases, when something occurs to him. He sits up straighter, “ _Oh!_ Can you tell me what kind of bird I am? And what it looks like when I change? I don’t have a mirror. Gaius knows about my magic, but I haven’t told him about the bird thing - I’ve found it’s really easy to sneak out as a bird. Don’t tell him.”

Lancelot laughs loudly at him, booming in the small room, “You don’t know? You’re a Merlin of course.” Without knowing why he finds himself blushing, covers his face with his hands. “As for how it looked, let me think. Have you ever been to the sea?” Merlin shakes his head, peeks out. “Have you ever swum in clear water and opened your eyes? The whole world kind of bleeds together.” He must see Merlin is not following. “Or… it looked as though- hm. As if the painting of the world was still wet and someone had trailed their hand through it. But then everything righted itself in a snap and you were changed!”

“Oh, well that doesn’t sound too bad.” He had forgotten how good it felt to have someone his close in age know about his magic, to chat and jest about it as though it was little consequence. “Will you still stay in Camelot, now that the Griffin is defeated?” He hopes so.

“If I am allowed. Technically I stole that horse you know.”

Merlin scoffs, “You should be _knighted_.”

“Can you turn into any other things?” Lancelot is not subtle as he changes the subject. Perhaps even his calm nature can be strained, and the warlock feels tactless.

“Not so far! I’m going to try and learn another though.”

“Oh? What will you be? A wolf? A stag? Will you be able to pick?”

“I don’t know - but it needs to be something small! Agile, too,” he grins, “and maybe something with hands.”

Lancelot throws his hands up in amused resignation, “That is not _at all_ what I might have guessed you were asking. Is it for a certain purpose?”

Merlin is eager to share his newest secret, and describes the hidden room to his friend, his troubles on how to get back inside. “I didn’t just ask you, either. Morgana suggested a stoat, but that’s far too big. Gwen said harvest mouse which might work, but of course they didn’t know why I asked either.”

“A mouse isn’t a bad idea at all.”

“You’re just saying that because it’s _Gwen’s_ idea,” he says around a jaw cracking yawn. Lancelot tries to deny it, but Merlin can see straight through him.

“It’s quite late enough. Goodnight!” Lancelot puts an end to it, and snuffs the candle, playfully grumpy.

He goes to sleep happier and lighter than he could have possibly imagined, feeling unburdened. How good it is to be known.

Despite how tired he is, that night he dreams.

It is the full glory of springtime, soft sweet grass is under his bare feet as he wiggles his toes. Without looking he knows that behind him there is a long stretch of a mirror still lake. Surrounded by his friends, he does aimless little magic tricks just for the beauty of it. He makes pretty motes of lights dart around for Morgana, and glowing flowers for Gwen that weave into her curly hair. He forms a tiny Camelot out of the earth at their feet, flags made out of red petals waving in the breeze. Just to make Arthur laugh he shapes an even smaller Llamrei out of the clear water and marches her around the castle, flicking her mane as the hunting dogs frolick after her. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the shape of a woman rising out of the water.

_The King, the King, the King._

It thunders through him, but not with fear - with anticipation.

When he wakes he feels uncommonly refreshed, and his dream hovers in his mind as clear as crystal.

***

“Rise and shine!” He greets Arthur a full hour later than he would usually get him up. The mood around the castle this morning was one of celebration and relief, and the kitchens had been overflowing with extra treats. He shoves a little sweet pie under Arthur’s nose, pulling it away as he sniffs in order to lure him up.

Arthur opens one blue eye. Evaluating him and evaluating the pie before he finally makes a decision. “Pie,” he croaks.

He looks and sounds as though he’d fought a Griffin and lost, so Merlin takes mercy on him and lets him break his fast in bed with no fussing. He tends to the fire while Arthur eats, and when he comes back about half the tray is gone, and he’s a little bit more awake. It’s not surprising he’s ravenous, he’d barely eaten a thing last night. Come to think of it, neither had Merlin, feeling too nervous and ill. His stomach rumbles loudly. Arthur sends him a judgmental look, but scoots the tray forwards on his lap nonetheless.

Merlin sits boldly on the side of his bed, feeling so happy he can’t help it. Something of it must show in his face, because Arthur just smiles back at him and nudges another little pie towards him. They eat in companionable silence, and the prince flops back dramatically when he’s had his fill.

“What’s happened to your knee, then?” Merlin looked down at the sloppy stitches. He had done the world’s most rushed job mending the large tear, Gwen would be appalled. If you looked you could see the bruise through the gaps. It did look terrible.

“I fell,” he says simply, and isn’t even lying. He plucks at the edge of the tear.

“Gaius say you could walk the stairs on that?”

“He didn’t say I _couldn’t._ ” Gaius hadn’t seen him yet, either still gone or gone again that morning - so he hadn’t said anything. Also not a lie.

Arthur narrows his eyes at him with extreme scepticism, but doesn’t call him out. “I’m _not_ getting up yet.”

“Don’t then,” Merlin agrees, “you don’t have anything you have to do for hours still. You’ll see your father, and there will be a celebration tonight- oh, and Gaius wants to look at you again. I’ve been told your other duties can wait so you can recover.” It feels like a luxury they haven’t had in ages - nothing to do! To think just mere weeks ago having nothing to do had felt like a punishment. He’ll never be so foolish again until the next time he is. Merlin is learning to make more reasonable promises to himself.

Arthur would usually protest that he didn’t need to ‘recover’, but this morning he merely nudges him gently with his foot under the covers. “Chess?” He’d been trying to teach his manservant on and off throughout winter, and in turn Merlin has pretended to not understand it each time. His enjoyment of the game comes from asking increasingly silly questions and wondering how long it will take the prince to catch on. “I’ll get it,” Arthur says, uncommonly thoughtful and letting Merlin stay off of his knee. He returns with the set and spreads it out directly on his bed, climbing back in. Merlin shuffles so there is space, and proceeds to pretend that he has never even _heard_ of chess before. It’s a gloriously lazy morning.

The prince has to show his face eventually, though.

It doesn’t matter how many times Merlin stands before the king, it always makes him squirm uncomfortably with the knowledge that he’s in front of a man who’d probably really enjoy seeing his head chopped off. At least Uther barely ever looks at him, which is nice. Hard to chop the head off of someone you don’t know exists. He thinks that to Uther he may just be a piece of shoddy furniture that follows his son around.

The thought cheers him.

At least Morgana is already at his side as he receives them. It usually softens him, for at least as long as she keeps her temper. That combined with Arthur looking much healthier this morning means that his mood is a very fine one. Well, aside from one little hiccup.

“And the issue of the horse theft?” Merlin tries to control his face, but isn’t sure he’s doing a good job. Morgana certainly isn’t doing a good job of controlling hers, her eyes narrowing darkly.

“Father, he only did so in order to come to my aid. He saved my life, and ended the Griffin, certainly that deserves a reward not a punishment.”

“Of course it will be forgiven, I am not so unreasonable as that,” Uther raised a hand in placation, “I just question the wisdom of allowing him to join the guards if he is prone to disobedience or rashness.”

At this Morgana intervenes, “It was my doing,” both king and prince turn towards her, “I was so worried, and he is the only one other than Arthur who had faced the beast. I begged him to go, and he did not dare refuse me. The transgression is mine.” She looks appropriately sorrowful and ladylike, and Uther’s face gentles. Merlin raises his eyebrows at her. _Really?_

The king turns back to Arthur and Morgana blinks at him in such a parody of vapid guilelessness that Merlin has to look at his feet to hide his smile.

“Assign him as you see fit. The boy certainly deserves something for his service. If you want to trial him in a position I shall allow it.” The king dismisses them, “Go now, rest before the celebration. This is a glorious day for Camelot, and a mighty blow against magic. Be proud.”

Merlin bows, as is required, but feels rather awful about it.

It is back in Gaius’s chambers after he has looked over Arthur for signs of a deeper injury due to his unconsciousness that things go all wrong. Merlin is tending to some of his endless chores while Gaius goes over all the ways a man can horribly die from a head injury when Arthur interrupts his lecture, “What about Merlin?” _Traitor._

“What about Merlin?” The physician repeats, “What about you?” And spins to his assistant, a new target acquired.

“He’s been hobbling around all morning, have you not seen his knee?” Arthur’s innocent face is not nearly as effective as Morgana’s.

“It’s nothing,” he protests, “it barely hurts.”

“Ah, so you’ve only _forgotten_ how to walk? Strangely I do find that believable given your general inc-.”

“That’s enough out of the two of you,” Gaius stops them before they can even get started, “Merlin, let me see.”

Let it not be said that he can’t tell when he’s been beaten, and so he doesn’t offer more than token protests. When his knee is revealed even Merlin has to admit it looks awful, having settled into a deep purple overnight. It is less swollen though.

“You’ll have to stay off of this, it needs to rest,” Gaius clicks his tongue at him. “Foolish boy, why didn’t you tell me?” He busies himself gathering arnica and a few other herbs for a poultice, “I’m very sorry, sire, but you will have to do without Merlin’s service tonight. We’ll see how it is faring tomorrow at the earliest.”

“What, _no_ , it’s not that bad! I want to go to the feast too - can’t we just wrap it please?” At this Merlin glares deeply at Arthur, who has the sense to look a little sorry to hear he will be missing the celebration entirely.

“I’m afraid not, you’ve been walking on it all day already. If you strain it you will only prolong the healing. No, I must insist.”

It doesn’t seem fair to him, that he should do the work of Griffin slaying and then get confined to his room as a reward while the rest of the castle enjoys themselves.

He prepares himself to sulk all night.

As it turns out though, once Arthur has been shooed away with one last regretful look over his shoulder, and once Gaius finally has the full story, he’s quite glad for it. Even though the physician has a strict rule on no magic when at all possible he still helps Merlin figure out how to turn a copper pot into a large bathtub, even more expansive and ornate than Arthurs. Gaius rolls his eyes at him when he sees the inlaid decorative mermaids and splashing fish, but Merlin thinks them charming. In his little room it barely fits, but when it is full of piping hot water and his knee is stretched out flat it’s the most wonderful thing. He feels like he’s melting, and he stays under the water until he is bright pink.

After a minor struggle to turn the bath back to normal - he really wants to keep it -Merlin is put to bed early, with strict instructions to read quietly. Gaius thoughtfully offers to give him a signal if he needs to stash his magic book, and he props himself up in bed and reads uninterrupted for _hours_. It is rather better than standing behind Arthur and pouring wine all night in the end. He doesn’t feel regretful at all, other than that he would have liked to see Lancelot be cheered for in the great hall.

As his eyes start to get heavier he does hear a knock at the outer door, and Gaius’s muffled voice, “I’ll see if he is still awake, sire.” He tosses his book under the bed in a hurry, and his mentor cracks the door open to see if the coast is clear. Merlin nods, and the door swings open the rest of the way to reveal Arthur, who has brought with him a plate from the feast.

“No one else in all of Camelot is so lucky as to be served by royalty,” he says wryly, nose in the air, “now budge over.” He sits beside Merlin on his uninjured side, but it’s too narrow for both of them, and he has to give up and keep one foot on the floor. His broad shoulder presses against Merlin’s skinny one, and he’s just a touch flushed and loose limbed. Clearly in a playful mood he holds the plate high above his head until Merlin says thank you. He doesn’t spill even a morsel, despite being tipsy, hands steady. “This isn’t an apology, just so you know,” the prince continues, “Not for you missing the feast, and not for leaving you behind. I’m not sorry for it. I was right both times - you should really listen to me more.”

“Of course, sire,” it is far easier to just nod along, especially when he’s brought so many of Merlin’s favorite foods.

“I’m glad you agree! And you have accepted it with such uncharacteristic dignity as well. Shall I assume you have learned your lesson and will always heed your prince going forward?” Arthur questions him, clearly not believing a word of it.

“I admire your optimism, but are you _sure_ you aren’t still dizzy from your blow to the head?”

“Must be dizzy, to ever think _you’d_ learn to listen to me.”

“You’d get bored.”

Arthur smiles at him and he feels like he’s glowing. He surreptitiously checks himself to make sure he’s not. A bit pink maybe, but not glowing. They banter while Merlin eats and eventually he sets the empty plate aside, full and content.

Which is when there is a soft knock at the door, and Lancelot appears with _another_ plate. Merlin can’t help but laugh a bit, feeling well looked after, and waves him in. “The man of the hour!” Arthur doesn’t budge from his side, which surprises him but he does nod a greeting as well. Lancelot clearly feels awkward, hovering and not sure what to do, so Merlin holds his hands out for the plate, despite not feeling able to eat another bite. “Talk about swordy stuff,” he offers, which sets Arthur off - as he knew it would.

It turns out they do like to talk about swordy stuff, and so Merlin is right about everything, as ever.

He’s rescued from the pair of them by yet another knock, Gwen and Morgana appearing with a third serving of food and a full pitcher of drink. His smile might split his face at this rate.

“Oh, we all had the same idea!” Gwen says brightly, and Lancelot turns his calf eyes on her adoringly.

“Mine was the best though,” Arthur murmurs hotly near his ear, the competitive sod.

He _had_ managed to pick all of Merlin’s favorite foods, but he certainly didn’t need a bigger ego, “Gwen’s is the best,” he gestures to the pitcher, “She brought the drinks!”

It turns out there are not enough cups for them all, so Merlin ends up drinking his wine out of a potion bottle from Gaius’s stores that Lancelot fetches. He swears ten times it’s clean, but he’s the only one brave enough to use it anyway. No one seems very reassured when he says he washed it himself.

“Take your medicine!” Arthur cheers as he swigs from the bottle, making him sputter and laugh, and things get rather boisterous after that.

Gaius shows remarkable patience and fortitude, letting them stay well into the night. He kicks them all out other than Lancelot eventually though - saying that even if _they_ don’t need rest _he_ does.

Arthur pushes at his shoulder gently as he finally gets up, and Merlin misses his warmth immediately. “Goodnight,” he says fondly.

Gwen gives him a hug and tells him to feel better soon, and Morgana follows her, giving him a firm embrace. While she’s leaning down to him, she whispers _thank you_ in his ear, and he’s sleepy and happy and utterly content with the world.

Lancelot makes himself as comfortable as he can on the floor, and he promises that he’ll find a new place to sleep tomorrow.

“The barracks, maybe,” he ponders sleepily, “and I can try and figure it out. Tomorrow. Maybe I can find a house.”

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Merlin admits between long blinks.

Lancelot hums in agreement, drifting off, “Me too.”

 _Yes,_ Merlin thinks, _this was far better than any feast._


	6. Merlin Fights History

The next animal he learned to transform into would be something with teeth.

There was no shame in being a falcon, and he felt very quick and powerful in the air indeed - no, it was his new form that was somewhat less than intimidating. In the end, neither he nor Lancelot could think of a better idea for infiltration than the little harvest mouse. An expert climber, useful tail, and tiny enough to squeeze through the smallest cracks. It was a practical choice, but also a terrifying one.

The world spun high above him as his paws hurried him through the library. Each book loomed above him as tall as a house, and each vibrating footstep sent a jolt of fear to his tiny racing heart. It was his first time taking this form out of the safety of his room. Lancelot had proven himself more than once to be a very wonderful ally to have in Camelot, and today he had kindly given him a lift in his pocket through the most crowded parts of the castle - but he was alone now.

It would all be worth it though - it must be!

He certainly _hoped_ that the room was still as magnificent and full of mystery as he remembered. It seemed learning new animal forms was not a simple or straightforward magic, no matter how he wished otherwise. To his frustration it had taken months of impatient struggling. He had much greater success once he finally saw one of the little mice in person - and ruefully remembered far too late that a similar thing had happened with his bird shape. It had scampered out of his sight in an instant, but seeing the swift, rapid motion of it turned something over in his mind. _Ah,_ _like that_ , it seemed to say.

A second downside to this was if he had to actually _see_ the animal it pretty much eliminated his secret hope to one day turn into a dragon.

Ah well. Camelot probably wouldn’t respond well to a dragon loitering around the citadel anyway.

His nose wiggled. The air smelled different here, older. Had he reached the secret room? It was hard to see, down on the floor as he was. He picked up his pace and stuck his nose in every crack in every bookshelf until finally - _yes!_

Despite the danger he had felt at being so small he is very glad for it now. He squeezes through the gap with little space to spare, but he fits! Success! Finally! And just as he remembered the room is stuffed to the brim with books and treasures, hidden away and forgotten. _By everyone but me_ , he thinks gleefully.

He takes his own form again, and has to cover his mouth with his hands to not give himself away immediately with a giddy shout. The excitement is almost more than he can stand, and he doesn’t know where to even begin. What great and powerful magics might be entombed here?

The piles of books? The artifacts that fill every corner? He summons a light to help him see, and as it flickers to life the room seems even bigger, shining shapes pulling his attention. He only has a couple of hours to himself, but this will take far, far longer to sort through. If only he knew where to start! Perhaps there is a record book, or a reference? Was this hidden here during the purge? Had there been time? Who had hidden it all? His mind raced, overwhelmed.

Merlin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He won’t know unless he looks. He has brought a small satchel with him, and in it a leatherbound book of his own. He had spent a good portion of his savings on it - intending to go against his nature and be methodical and create thorough notes. This was not a project in which he could be careless. His little box of coins was much lighter, but it was well worth it.

His hands are trembling too much to write, however, and he decides to get a lay of the land for now. Skimming through book titles, not all of them are in languages he even recognizes, but intermingled throughout are tomes proudly open about being magic - some even with elaborate and expensive bindings. It was odd to think that they might have had a place of great pride once, now covered with cobwebs in the dark and known only to a servant boy. He can’t help the melancholy that creeps over him at the thought. The magic users at Camelot who had cherished these books were all gone now. Long having fled or perished at the hand of the king.

The city always seemed so crowded and full of life compared to Ealdor. Yet how many more would there have been? He swallows thickly. The warlock tentatively pulls one of the books off of the shelf, letting his hands run over the embossed cover. He opens it, and the first spell he sees is a harmlessly practical one, to extend the life of herbs while keeping their potency. Flipping through the pages they are all as such - small things that a hedgewitch might manage. Cleaning spells, to light a candle, to help an ewe with a difficult lambing. Someone has vandalised a spell for cleansing someone of pox, the childish looking handwriting teasing ‘ _MILDÞRYÐ NEEDS THIS_!’.

He has to shut the book and sit very still for a moment.

Merlin lets his eyes drift over some of the artifacts instead. There is a huge variety, some jewelry, some stone, some practical household things. He picks up a metal candlestick with a handle. It is plain, but when he turns it over he sees there are tiny runes encircling the bottom. He’s not sure what they mean, but maybe he can learn. He tucks it into his satchel, intent on finding its secrets - better to start with something harmless like a candlestick. He eyes the dramatic looking urn with a tinge of longing. Better not. Wouldn’t fit in the satchel anyway.

The next book he opens is a book on history, as is the one after that, and the third is about magical creatures. He takes out his empty book and quill, and starts to organize things. None of them deserve to be forgotten here, locked away, but this is the best he can do for now. The scratch of his writing seems loud in the silent room, but it soothes him. There is at least one sorcerer in Camelot that Uther hasn’t snuffed out. Maybe there are more to come.

***

“Gaius,” Merlin begins, as he cleans up after their evening meal, “may I ask you something?” He fidgets.

The older man must be able to sense his mood, turning to him in concern. “Of course, Merlin. Are you unwell?”

“No, it’s not that,” he hedges, “I just had some questions. About life in Camelot, you know, _before._ Before the purge, I mean.” His voice is meek as he trails off.

“Oh. My boy,” Gaius asks him, “why do you ask?”

It is his fatherly tone of concern that has Merlin spilling the whole story, even the bits he had kept from Gaius for his own selfish fun and unwillingness to be told to stop his investigation. He had thought finding the room sounded like a very great adventure, and liked the freedom that sneaking around as a bird had afforded him. Now he just desperately needed a listening ear.

“I don’t think you need me to tell you this could have gone very poorly for you,” Gaius’s voice is soft, “Merlin, sometimes you worry me so.”

“I know,” he agrees, apologetic, “and I’m sorry. I got carried away. I just… it’s so _exciting_ to learn new magic. And then there was this whole room full of it, just for me! I didn’t really think about anything else. Now I don’t know how to understand even half of it, and there’s just so _much_ of it. I’ve never thought about how many sorcerers there must have been, and I just-” he stops himself, taking a breath, “I am really happy, Gaius. Honestly. I’m happier in Camelot than I ever thought I could be, with you, and all my friends. I guess-I guess I just wanted to know more about it. I don’t even know how much I _don’t know_. I’m sorry.”

“No, Merlin,” Gaius’s voice is rough, “you never have to apologize for that. You don’t have to apologize at all,” he nods his head and takes a deep breath, “If you can bear with this old man, I’ll try and tell you what I can. Come, lock the door. Let me think on where to begin. Did you have any questions in particular?”

“All of it? I guess I just don’t know _how_ it happened. _Why_? Nobody talks about it! And why didn’t people fight back if they had magic?”

“They did, Merlin. There is something you need to understand, and you need to not let it go to your head. Not all sorcerers are like you. The things that you can do - in all my years of study I’ve never seen the like. You’ve learned so much, so quickly. You do magic that would take most years to learn with no invocations. This newest gift of yours - to change shape at all, let alone without a magical focus of great power? I know of no other in the world who can do so. Merlin, listen to me now. Most magic users simply _cannot_ do these things. In Camelot, there used to be many who were capable of small works, or had a specific knack. And then, when the purge began,” he cast his eyes downwards, “well, they were as defenceless as any other man or woman. It was a dark, dark time.”

“Oh,” Merlin says weakly, unsure of himself.

“Indeed. There were only ever a handful of magic users in Camelot who could have challenged the purge, but King Uther is clever. Do not forget that. If you can be outmaneuvered it doesn’t matter how powerful you are.”

Merlin looks down at his twisting hands. It’s an uncomfortable thought. “Why, though? Why did it happen at all?”

Gaius’s voice is as serious and as solemn as he has ever heard, “I cannot tell you. I have made a vow that will not allow it, and I cannot break it.”

Merlin waits to see if more will come, but the physician holds silent on this. He knew magic could be used for great evil, he had even seen some of it himself. A thin, horrible fear rose in him. “Was it bad? I mean, did… we, they, deserve it?”

Gaius’s face was tormented, “No, Merlin. No.”

He let out a shaky breath,“And what about outside of Camelot?”

“What do you mean, my boy?”

“Is magic banned like this anywhere else?”

“Not entirely. Some kingdoms have stricter laws for its use, but no. No other kingdom could afford the loss - Camelot was in a strong position when Uther began the purge, beyond compare. His army was strong, the treasury was full, the land was arable. Even without magic the kingdom was well protected, but for others it would not be so.” Gaius is hesitant now, “Is it your wish to leave, Merlin?”

“No!” He finds himself answering without thought, but it is the truth, “I want to stay. But I want to use magic, too,” he’s not certain how this can ever come to be, but it is what he wants nonetheless.

“I know you do,” Gaius soothes him, “you have done so much for the people here, even if they do not know it. Your magic is a gift. I am more sorry than I can say that you must hide it.”

Merlin has a hundred more questions, and a hundred more after that - but there is one that seems most urgent. It is not the first time he has thought about Morgause’s words, wondering over the truth of them, but maybe now he can put it to rest one way or another, “Do you remember when Arthur and I went to Howden? It was maybe a year ago, and we met that woman who told us about the Alp-luachra?”

“I can recall, yes, but why?”

“She implied some things. About the purge, about the balance?” He could plainly remember the look on Arthur’s face, a complicated emotion that even now Merlin could not name. “That the blood spilled had maybe done something.”

Gaius sat slowly back in his chair looking concerned, pale eyes wide, “That is the dominion of the High Priestesses, Merlin. I am afraid I don’t have an answer for you.”

“But you think it’s possible? Is the land around Camelot weakening? Is that why so many magical things keep going wrong here?”

“Blood, sacrifice, balance. It is possible, but I do not know, it is beyond me. I’m sorry Merlin,” he repeats himself, “I do not know.”

It is a relief to speak openly, but now he has new worries to replace his old ones, and instead he has only upset Gaius. He puts his hands down on the table as he stands, head low as he apologizes “I’m sorry. I know this is unpleasant, and I didn’t mean to trouble you with bad memories.”

“Trouble me?” One of Gaius’s wrinkled hands finds his and clasps over it firmly, “It would trouble me far more if you did not share your burdens with me. You need never worry over troubling me, not ever.” Gaius waits for Merlin to agree before continuing, “This woman, though, who told you about the balance. Tell me, did she give her name? What was her appearance?”

“She called herself Morgause, and she had even paler hair than Arthur. I don’t remember much more than that, I was looking at the water.”

“That is good. Very good,” he hesitated, indecisive, but finally continued, “You must be careful if you encounter the sorceress Nimueh, Merlin, promise me. She bears no love for Camelot, and would make an exceedingly dangerous enemy.”

“I will be careful, I promise,” Merlin says sincerely.

“I would send you to bed with happier thoughts. Go fetch this candlestick you recovered, let’s see if we cannot begin to decipher those runes. Honestly, my boy, learning to become a mouse just to sneak into the library,” he teases gently, “Don’t you know Geoffrey would never refuse me entrance, nor you with me?”

Merlin flushes, sheepish as he fetches his bag, “It made sense to me at the time. Besides, we can’t move it all in here, there’s already little enough space.”

“That is certainly true! If you would permit me, I’d like to visit this room. It heartens me that there might be so much knowledge to have survived, and I should like to see it myself. There may be dangerous items as well, don’t let your excitement make you incautious!”

“I know, I won’t!” The world feels a little more righted as Gaius lectures him. Merlin sets the mundane looking candle holder on the table between them, and the older man rolls his sleeves up.

“How much have you read on runes and their components with metalworking?” Gaius asks him.

“Not very much,” he admits, and then more honestly, “None, actually.”

“Well, let us begin then.”

***

It turns out that Gaius had no intention of merely _giving_ Merlin the answer. Now that they had a magical project to work on with no hanging threat of imminent death and destruction the physician had decided it was an excellent opportunity to teach a stronger foundation of some of the basic tenets of runeworking. He insisted that Merlin would be glad for it when he was able to read, understand, and maybe even eventually compose runes of his own without the aid of a book - which was a valid point. And so Merlin was determined to figure out the candle holders mysteries himself. But learning what was essentially a new language was _hard_ , and his head felt stuffed full. To complicate things, he had also been advised to study metals, for their different compositions might have different uses and interactions with magic. He had a new respect for cold iron, for one thing. It was daunting, and the amount to learn seemed impossible in a lifetime, and still Merlin couldn’t wait to get back to his studies.

“You’re even more in the clouds than usual, and that’s saying something,” Arthur chided him, blocking the sun as he approached Merlin on the practice fields.

Merlin blinked twice and tried to focus. In his hands he held the same chainmail that he hadn’t been oiling for nearly an hour. “Sorry, sire,” Arthur was right unfortunately, he was miles away, “Gaius and I were up late going over a book.”

“Pah,” Arthur kicked lightly at his foot, and Merlin nearly fumbled the chainmail straight into the dirt, “too much reading, not enough movement. Come on, take up a weapon, we’ll go over your drills again.”

Merlin groaned. Arthur had attempted to get Merlin armed with something for the entirety of their relationship, even in the early days where they could barely stand one another. It had yet to stick.

“Must I?” Merlin whines. But he knows the answer.

“You must.” Arthur hauls him to his feet and thumps his hand hard against Merlin’s slumped shoulders, “Come on, move your feet.”

Merlin purposefully drags his boots, the very picture of sorrow, and sends a longing look to his shady seat. Arthur rolls his eyes and waves with his hand to beckon Merlin to hurry it up. Already some of the knights have turned to observe the show.

In the following bout it would be nice to say he landed some good hits of his own, but it would also be a lie. Merlin does get some polite claps from a handful of knights when he manages to block a tricky strike from Arthur towards the end of the drill, however. He bows to them with a messy flourish, his arms feeling boneless.

“You are the only man I’ve ever met who seems to get worse with practice,” Arthur marvels at him, not even winded.

“It’s a talent.”

“It’s a something, certainly.”

There is a breeze today, and Merlin turns his face into it, feeling in sore need of it. The work has left him red cheeked and a little sweaty, and in the sun it feels slightly too warm. The bridge of his nose and the back of his ears feel hot, like he might burn. He hopes not, he hates the itching. A heavy white cloud rolls through the sky, and his mind starts to float away with it again. When he turns back to Arthur, the prince is watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Arthur shakes his head and looks away, seemingly caught out, “I think you might be getting burnt.”

Merlin _knew it._

“Alright, let’s get you inside. Time to go back anyway. More delicate than Morgana, I swear.”

Morgana was one of the fiercest people Merlin knew, so he didn’t take it as an insult. She also had the good sense to stay inside or in the cooler gardens with the shade when the sun was shining like this. He knew for a fact that she peeled horribly if she got sunburnt, since he was the one to take her the balm for it. She had stood tall with her feet planted and sternly sworn him to silence over it, one pale hand covering her nose. The memory made him smile, and when he looked again at Arthur, the blond seemed a little red too.

“I still have to go to the market to pick up an order for Gaius,” Merlin says, “I can’t go back yet. Did you need me for something?”

“No,” Arthur replies quickly, fidgeting and looking at his feet.

“Oh,” Merlin hedges, “did you want to come with me?”

“You’d only get lost if I didn’t,” and without waiting for a reply, Arthur strode boldly off towards the market, making Merlin jog to keep up.

Either despite the heat of the day or because of it it is busy out, the market is crowded with people. It’s useful to be with the prince though, all Merlin has to do is follow behind him in his wake as the crowd makes way for him, no shoving or elbowing required. It’s a novel experience for the warlock. Above them some shops had awnings flapping merrily in the breeze, and he watches the sun shine through them for a moment, once more thinking again about his newest project. He collides harshly with Arthur’s broad back.

“Ouch, what?” He leans to peek over Arthur’s shoulder. What now? There is a commotion up ahead, but Merlin can’t make out of what sort. Arthur is already moving ahead, intent on doing the guards job for them. Merlin follows, but people are heading away from the problem, whatever it is, and without Arthur there as a buffer it takes him some time to start overhearing the gossip.

‘ _Druids!’_

Oh _._ His kind of commotion.

When he is close enough to see, it is a man and a young child, with three guards surrounding them. Lancelot is among them, in fact he is the one with a hand around the child’s fragile looking wrist. The shopkeeper is speaking to Arthur, pointing at the pair, looking wildeyed. No one seems to notice Merlin except for Lancelot and the child, who face him one after the other. After that, three things happen at once, very quickly.

Lancelot meets his eyes, and jerks his head in a nod towards the alleyway between two buildings that Merlin is hovering near.

A desperate cry of ‘ _Emrys!’_ echos through his mind.

And Lancelot lets go.

Merlin lunges around the corner before the other guards, or even worse, Arthur manages to notice him there. A shout goes up, and the boy comes tearing into the alleyway, where Merlin picks him up and starts sprinting, using his magic to knock down boxes and barrels and anything else he can to slow them down. He can feel the child’s panicked breath where his face is tucked into his neck, and Merlin tries desperately to find a little more speed in his legs. It seems like the height of insanity to know that one of the pursuers is Arthur. The boy is so light in his arms, and seems incredibly young. Nothing about this is right at all.

He hears Lancelot yell from behind him, “This way!” and knows without question that he’ll be leading the other guards away from him. Before they enter a new street Merlin slows them down to a normal walk and takes the distinctive blue cloak off of the boy, tucking it under his arm and trying to make it as small as he can. Fearful blue eyes look up at him, bright and wet, and Merlin tries to muster a reassuring smile.

He doesn’t think it works. He could use some reassurance himself. He doesn’t know what to do, or where to go. Gaius would hide him, he thinks, but the physicians chambers are open with frequent visitors. He needs to decide now though, before the alarm goes up through the entire city. There is only one place he can think of, but it’s madness to hide in the castle. He’s not sure they have a choice. They have no time.

He keeps his grip tight on the boy’s hand, and he tries to act as unobtrusive as possible. Nothing about his magic ever seems sure to him, but he attempts to put it to use keeping eyes away from them and hopes for the best. The warning bell sounds, and he ducks his head and keeps walking, picking the child up again when he can’t keep up with Merlin’s long legs.

When he knocks on Morgana’s door, it is a confused Gwen who answers. He rudely pushes though and closes the door behind him, shaking. He doesn’t think he was followed. The boy is breathing hard and has kept a small hand fisted in Merlin’s shirt, and Gwen and Morgana look at the pair of them in alarm.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know where to go,” he confesses, “I wasn’t sure who else would hear me out. They’ll kill him. Please.”

In the distance the bell is ringing.


	7. Merlin Fights Loneliness

His pulse is thudding in his ears and his legs are trembling. The early practice followed by his mad sprinting through the city carrying the weight of the boy left him feeling just as weak as Arthur always teases him to be. Morgana and Gwen seem somewhat poleaxed, but neither of them had tried to toss the two intruders out or started screaming. The boy is still holding on to him, and Merlin lets a hand fall onto his dark hair.

“No one is killing anyone here,” Morgana’s voice sounds far more sure and steady than his own had, and Merlin feels lightheaded with relief.

“Of course not,” Gwen agrees immediately. She offers a small strained smile to the young boy, aiming for reassuring, but he merely tucks his head into Merlin’s side, hiding his face.

“This is Gwen, and this is Morgana,” he tries his best to sound calm, the way his mother always managed to sound, no matter what trouble he had gotten into. He hoped against his better judgement that they were right, and that he was wrong - that indeed no one need be killed today. Whatever the druid man was to this boy, he had been left behind. Lancelot had a calm head, and certainly Arthur would arrest someone for the king’s appraisal rather than take the law into his own hands, but what of the other two guards? And even if he lived to see the inside of a dungeon, Uther would never show leniency and allow him to live - Merlin knew that down to the marrow of his bones. He tries to think of something comforting to say, but his mind comes up empty. Instead he clumsily pats the boy’s dark hair, still warm from the sun.

“And who is this?” Gwen asks, kneeling down slightly.

_‘Mordred.’_

From the way Gwen falls back onto her behind with an ‘oof’ and Morgana gasps he suspects he might not be the only one hearing it.

“He’s a druid,” Merlin offers weakly.

“He’s a child,” Morgana counters.

Merlin throws his hands up in front of himself, trying not to feel accused, “You don’t have to tell me that!” She sighs, and her eyes lose some of their frost.

“Of course not,” she doesn’t apologize, “and it’s not you I’m angry with.”

Mordred has finally gathered the courage to look at the two women, his solemn little face is pale and wan. Morgana gets down on the floor with Gwen, and offers him a smile of her own. Her dress is as resplendent as ever, a green like the deepest parts of the forest, but she seems unconcerned for it as she holds his gaze.

“Are you thirsty, hungry?” She asks. At this Gwen stands, going to a low table with a pitcher and pouring a cup of water, but when she returns she settles on the floor again. Merlin feels very tall and awkward, and folds his legs under him as well, unsure of what to do now. He finally sets the blue cloak down, he’d forgotten he was even carrying it. It’s damp and wrinkled where his sweaty hand had clenched it, white-knuckled.

“What happened?” Gwen finally asks, looking apologetic. There is no where to speak of this where Mordred won’t hear.

“I don’t know what happened before I got there, but the guards had been called because of Mordred and another druid. Was he your father?” Mordred sips at his cup of water, but does not answer verbally.

_‘Yes, Cerdan.’_

“Well, Lancelot was among them,” Gwen inhales sharply and Merlin contines quickly, “but he’d never hurt a child, of course! He was the one who let you go,” he looks down to Mordred, to make certain he has his full attention, “If something should happen and I can’t help you, I want you to know you can trust him. You both, too,” he insists to his friends.

“He’s a good man,” Morgana agrees with no hesitation, and Gwen nods firmly, eyes sparking.

“He is. He must have known I’d help Mordred, because when he saw me he took the chance to let him go. I think he led the guards away from us, but I don’t know what happened with Cerdan. I’m sorry I couldn’t help him,” he says tentatively, “Arthur isn’t unreasonable, though, I’m sure he’s safe.” _For now_ , he couldn’t help but think bleakly. Hopefully Mordred couldn’t hear that bit.

“ _Arthur_ was there? He let this madness happen?” The disdain is dripping off of every word. It was an understatement to say that Morgana and Arthur could be prone to butting heads, but Merlin had not heard this level of venom before.

“We were together in the market when it happened, Arthur wasn’t the one to call the guards - he didn’t do anything!” He found himself defending. _Except chase you through the streets._ He _really_ hoped Mordred couldn’t hear him.

“I am sure he ‘didn’t do anything’, he _never_ does,” she agrees with scorn.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you think he’ll ‘do anything’ against Uther in this? In _anything_?”

Merlin has devoted so much time to thinking about this that he nearly bursts into laughter right then and there at the absurdity of the question. He has thought about it so much that it has made a home under his skin like a burr, a constant irritating companion he can never escape. He has learned that Arthur is capable of strength but also mercy, of compassion. Not just the sort of man to start a fight, but also one who knows when to end one. It is what will make him a great king. And Merlin is certain with the whole of his heart that Arthur could become a great king - as long as Uther doesn’t manage to stamp all of the kindness out of him.

It is only on the subject of magic that twists things in Camelot so cruelly to make Merlin feel doubt. Would any of that mercy or compassion ever be directed at Merlin should he reveal himself, or will he only be seen as a traitor? No matter how deeply he thinks on it he is never sure. When he allows himself he can admit how much he hates Uther for his poisonous grip on Arthur. Uther, who treats his son so well and so poorly in turns, making Arthur desperate to prove himself to an ever changing standard. Sometimes Merlin just wants to grab Arthur and _shake_ him, to shout in his face: ‘ _This is not how you are meant to be loved!’._

“I don’t know,” he finally bites out, tight and miserable, “I hope so.”

“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry,” Her face crumples into sorrow. It takes him aback, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her apologize, or at least not so quickly or so sincerely.

“This isn’t what we need to focus on,” Gwen puts a gentle hand on Morgana’s arm, “We need to figure out what to do now. The alarm has been sounded, they’ll be closing the gates and searching soon, if they aren’t already. You are sure you weren’t seen, Merlin?”

Gwen is always the most level headed of any of them, and he’s grateful for it now. They do need to focus, there are more important things going on than his own internal frustrations.

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head, thinking back, “Arthur was there, but he wouldn’t have been paying attention to me. I haven’t been in Camelot as long as either of you, are there any other ways out of the city?” Merlin questions, and wonders if there is a spell for invisibility he can learn in an hour, or for reappearing in another place entirely. He’s become reliant upon using his bird shape to get in and out of the city unseen, but he can’t carry Mordred with him.

“Maybe I know a way? Through the lower town, I’m not sure. We’d have to wait far past nightfall,” Gwen bites her lip, looking nervous. It’s a long way to travel through the open streets, but he’s not sure what other options they have.

“You can’t stay here, though,” Morgana says, and Merlin is about to lose his temper on her for her uncharacteristic coldness to put Mordred out on his own - but it’s him that she is looking at.

“What, why?” He doesn’t want to leave them.

“We need to know what’s happening outside the castle, and you can’t be missing if-” she is interrupted by a clattering in the hall outside her door, and they freeze. No knock comes, but the fear feels urgent and potent in the air.

“Right,” Merlin agrees this time, “I’ll try and find out what’s happening. You stay here, say hidden, alright?” He meets Mordred’s eyes and waits until he nods.

_‘Yes, Emrys.’_

“My name’s Merlin,” he corrects, but he gets the impression that Mordred is only humouring him.

***

He doesn’t look for Arthur, but they find each other with uncanny quickness anyway. He must have been on his way to Morgana’s rooms. If that is the case Merlin is happy to interrupt him. Although truth be told right now he would have rather found Lancelot first - he worries for his friend, but there is no sign of him. Enough time has passed that the search is well underway, and the line of Arthur’s shoulders is tense and stern. He does not unwind in the slightest when he sees Merlin. Instead his eyes narrow and he picks up his pace, stalking towards Merlin, and in one smooth motion he is grabbed and pulled along by Arthur, who does not break his stride while his manservant stumbles behind him. His feet trip and drag on the floor and the grip on his arm is bruising. Arthur’s rooms are not so very far from Morgana’s and it is there that he takes them.

“Where did you go?” Arthur rounds on him as soon as the door is shut.

“What do you mean, I came here-”

“Do not lie to me. I mean _where did you take him?_ Do you think I’m blind. For pity’s sake Merlin, I was right there,” His voice is quiet, and cold, and absolutely furious.

Merlin swallows, shocked into silence. In even his most dire worries for smuggling Mordred out of the city he did not anticipate getting caught literally immediately. Worse. In fact he was caught long before he even made it to Morgana’s room. He says nothing, fumbling with any possible explanation. His stomach has sunk like a stone.

“You were right behind me, and Lancelot let the boy go! How lowly is your opinion of me, that you think I would not see!” _There is no wheedling out of this_ , one part of Merlin thinks, while Arthur rants. The other part thinks _he hasn’t called the guards yet, or arrested me himself. He didn’t shout my name on the street._ “How stupid do you think I am exactly, hm? What were you _thinking._ ” Arthur paces away from him but after only a few steps he turns back and is in Merlin’s face again, practically vibrating in his anger, fists clenched.

“What happened to his father?” Merlin asks meekly.

“The _druid_ used magic to escape while Lancelot and I pursued _you_ ,” His tone was seething, “and now the city is under lockdown and the castle is being turned upside down, and the king is livid. He’ll have the child killed when he’s found now-”

“He was always going to kill him!” Merlin interrupts, finding his voice when he finds his anger, “that’s what he does!”

“You will not speak of your king that way, that is too bold even for you!”

“He is not my king!” Merlin is shouting, and he hasn’t realized it. He claps a hand over his mouth and looks at the thick door. He hopes it has muffled his words - they would get his head chopped off just as quickly as his many other misdeeds today. Arthur is the one who is shocked into silence now, blue eyes looking betrayed. “I’m sorry,” Merlin says, although he doesn’t mean it. He supposes he is a bit sorry for saying something that Arthur cannot cheerfully ignore, as he can with his many other insolences. But Uther has none of his loyalty and never has.

“You have renounced Cenred to me in the past, and you have since called Camelot your home, was that a lie?” Arthur questions him hollowly.

“ _No!_ ” Merlin wants to tear his hair out, “I’m not loyal to Cenred, you prat! It’s you, _maybe_ , but not if you-” he cuts himself off, unable to even say it aloud, as if that might wish it into being.

“Not if I what?” Arthur demands, unrelenting.

“Not if you hunt down and _murder_ an innocent child,” Merlin finally has to admit, “And that is what it would be. I… would not be able to forgive you, or serve you. He hasn’t done anything, Arthur. Sire. Please. He’s only a little boy.”

A little boy with magic. His only crime was to be born in a time and place where Uther was king.

“I have asked the king to consider his age and that the druids are a peaceful people,” Arthur prevaricates.

“And what did he say to that?” Merlin asks, although they both know the answer. If the king had agreed Arthur would have thrown it in his face by now if only to show him how wrong he was. “Did you tell him that Lancelot showed mercy? Does he still live?”

“Lancelot will outlive you at the rate you’re going,” Arthur does not say it outright, for admitting so would reveal his own treason in withholding information from the king but Merlin is relieved to hear it. Lancelot is unharmed, and perhaps the prince is not as unmoved as he would have Merlin believe. He’s kept two secrets already. Merlin begins to feel a stirring of hope. “What were you _thinking_?” Arthur repeats in frustrated desperation.

“I didn’t think you knew I followed you, for one,” he lightly attempts a joke.

“Don’t even try that,” Arthur cuts it off immediately, “I always know where you are. It’s easy because you always follow _me_. You can’t keep your nose out of anything, either, of course I knew, idiot. You need to tell me where he is.”

“What will you do?”

“I have a duty to uphold the king’s laws, Merlin,” Arthur begins.

“You have a _duty_ to protect your people-”

“He’s a druid-”

“He’s still a person!”

“Druids are dangerous-”

“ _He’s a child!_ And druids are peaceful, you said so yourself!”

“And what would you suggest I do?”

Merlin thinks that Arthur means it sincerely, even as his voice is mocking. He thinks that the prince would dearly like another option to present itself, if only given the chance. A hand to be extended or a rope to climb, any way forward but the one the king has given him. Arthur rubs at the bridge of his nose, looking trapped.

“You could let him go. Go back to his home, and his father,” Merlin reaches out to take Arthur’s wrist, begging.

“Treason. And only to return the boy to a father who abandoned him. Do you think I lack to fortitude to fulfill my oaths to my kingdom, even when they are ugly?” He doesn’t shake Merlin’s hand away.

“No. I think you are strong enough and good enough to do the right thing, even if it’s hard. You know he has done no evil. Please, Arthur,” Merlin will beg on his knees if he must, and not feel a lick of shame. But he does not have to. He can feel Arthur relenting before he even speaks.

“I will try and talk with my father once more over the evening meal. If he will not be moved, I will consider your words.”

Merlin suspects he knows what the outcome will be, but Arthur loves his father. The warlock feels a swell of pity. For Arthur, who will be disappointed, and for Uther, who is so far down his own dark path that neither love nor reason will find him.

If anyone can reach him though it will be Arthur and Morgana.

He is ordered to remain in Arthur’s rooms while the prince continues the search, albeit halfheartedly, before he will entreat his father as they dine. Merlin doesn’t hear any clanging of armor or clashing of weapons, and hopes that Morgana can and will turn anyone away from her door - and so he impatiently stays inside as told, even though he hates it.

He paces in front of the empty fireplace, and tries to clean a little to stay busy, but probably makes more mess than anything else. Merlin does not know how the evening will go, but he decides it’s not presumptuous to prepare a travel bag, just in case. He throws in a few things - what he can without leaving Arthur’s chambers, since he promised. He wants to trust and be trusted by Arthur, and so he does not leave. A change of clothes, a waterskin, a knife Merlin had sharpened this morning while Arthur ate breakfast. He looks through Arthur’s shelves for anything useful, feeling nosy and restless.

On one he sees a row of little useless things, but unlike the jewels in his elaborate locked chest they are valueless. A feather, a pretty stone, and next to that lies the twig that Arthur had taken out of his hair after Merlin’s tree adventure on Samhain. It is arranged half hidden in a cupboard, along with a few other boyhood treasures, the yellow leaf long since dried. His heart swells, and it reassures him to see it - he’s glad to have given a happy memory to Arthur. He hopes there are many more to come, whatever else tonight brings.

When Arthur returns he is stoic and his expression is wounded, with Morgana trailing behind him, wet eyed and fuming, a ring of red around her neck.

***

In the end the consensus is that Lancelot will lead Mordred through the burial vaults, a path that only Arthur had known to suggest, grimly trusting Lancelot with a key. Gwen had bravely offered to take Mordred herself to spare Lancelot the risk, but a guard during curfew can travel more easily than she ever could.

Arthur, who cannot be missing all night, will be heading the unsuccessful search. In a parody of Lancelot’s chase of Merlin this morning he will lead the knights away from the escaping pair. The one to take their role with the poorest grace is Morgana, as she will do nothing but be very visibly not helping, which is a necessary evil. Uther’s eyes will be on her.

She touches her throat where the king had grabbed her, and even though Merlin knows she would never lie about it he still struggles to believe that Uther had laid his hands on her. If he would have assumed anyone would be safe from Uther’s temper he would have said was Morgana.

Merlin once again does not know what to do. He has not volunteered that he has magic, and Lancelot keeps his silence. Should he go with them? Stay with Arthur? Protect Morgana? It seems the way of things, for him to be plagued with indecision. He wishes he had told Arthur about his magic so at least it would be over with, and Arthur would command him one way or the other. The idea of handing his fate to Arthur isn’t as frightening as it was even this morning.

But still, he hesitates, as he always does. Long years of being told to keep his secret _no matter what_ are not so easy to shake, and he fears upsetting their fragile plan and ruining Mordred’s escape.

The young druid boy has insisted that his father waits for him in the woods, that he had told Cerdan that he was safe. He would know, Merlin supposes. It would be a neat trick to have - to know where Arthur is all the time, and be able to yell at him from anywhere. He adds it to his ever growing list of things to learn. He will never sleep again at this rate.

 _‘Emrys’,_ Mordred calls to him. Merlin feels quite immature, to be called to attentiveness by a child - even one as serious as Mordred is.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Merlin asks out loud, for the third time.

 _‘Yes’,_ Mordred replies, without a hint of impatience, ‘ _you could come visit, if you want.’_ And a rush of green images spin through his mind, laying out a path. As if he were looking through a many faceted crystal the forest shows him the way to the druids.

“Oh, thank you,” he says, and means it. “That’s very nice of you.”

“That’s unnerving, you know,” Arthur has adjusted remarkably quickly to the fact that Mordred can speak through his mind, and Merlin is far too proud of him. It’s not like Merlin’s done anything, but he still feels as though he’s been given a chest full of gold or a castle of his own or some such nonsense. He finds himself beaming at Arthur like an idiot, heart pounding.

Morgana gives him a very flat and judgemental stare.

“I think Merlin should go with Mordred and Lancelot,” Morgana suddenly interjects.

“Well _I_ think Merlin should stay here, the fewer bodies leaving the castle the less chance of discovery,” Arthur is as ready to argue with her as ever.

“Maybe Merlin wants to go,” She taunts him back.

“ _Mer_ -lin wants to stay,” Arthur drags out his name in the obnoxious way that only he does.

“Has either of you asked Merlin what he wants to do?” Lancelot calmly chides. If the warlock actually knew what he wanted to do he is sure he would appreciate the gesture.

Merlin stutters out a noise that is not a word. He looks pleadingly at Arthur, who makes a face that seems to say he finds Merlin very tragic indeed.

“I would prefer someone stay with Morgana,” Arthur says, “Gwen lives in town and is under curfew. If my father realizes the boy is gone he may come for her - she was… outspoken about the matter at dinner. He may suspect her, and he was not gentle with her about the matter.”

“Oh, don’t be shy, Arthur,” Morgana replies, “the king has said if he discovers I had anything to do with this he’d have me killed.” Her tone is light, but her distress is as plain as day.

“My Lady!” Gwen gasps, going to the bed where Morgana has been perched and sits beside her, throwing her arms around her. Merlin can see both of their eyes shining wetly in the dim room, and he looks away, feeling helpless.

“I’ll stay,” the warlock says quietly, “though I’m not sure what good I’ll do.”

“I can no longer delay, I must lead the search,” Arthur sounds less stoic than he might hope. “He should not have touched you,” he finally offers to Morgana, looking ashamed.

“He does lots of things he shouldn’t,” She replies, unflinching. It is an uncomfortable truth for Arthur to hear, but Morgana has never been one to look away from injustice for the sake of comfort, and she does not now. Arthur doesn’t drop her gaze, and merely nods at her tightly before leaving them to join his knights.

They sit in tense silence until Gwen, Lancelot, and Mordred leave. Gwen will scout as far as she can for the two escapees before she has to go to her own home, to wait the night out just as Merlin and Morgana will.

An hour passes, then two.

Morgana has kept watch over the city at her window, a dark silhouette against the light stone of the castle illuminated by moonlight. Merlin wishes he knew what to say to her. To offer some comfort. His mother had never struck him, would never hunt down an innocent child. Would never kill a child. He averts his eyes and looks down at his hands, twisting them. His fingers are pale in the blue light. The next time he lifts his head back to Morgana she is looking at him as well.

“I was wrong,” she says, startling him. “I didn’t think Arthur would help.”

“He wanted to,” Merlin insists, “right from the start. I know he did. He just needed the opportunity. He’s not- he’s not like Uther.”

“Maybe not,” she smiles weakly at him.

“He’s not,” he confirms with more certainty.

“You’ve changed him for the better, though. You know how he was like when you arrived? No one would ever fight back with him, he was a bully.”

“I thought he was a toad,” Merlin confesses.

“He was!” She agrees, as happy as he’s seen her this night. “It hasn’t really been that long since you’ve come to Camelot if you think about it, but he’s a new man.”

“He’s not, really,” Merlin tries to get his thoughts out, “he was always himself. I think… I think that he was very lonely. And he wanted Uther’s approval, and attention, and his cronies gave it to him when he was a prat.” He stops, considers, “Will was like that, after his father died.”

“Will?” Morgana prompts him.

“My friend, in Ealdor. My only friend - and I was his only friend. He lost his father when he was young, to Cenred. His mother was grieving and trying to run the house and make sure they had enough to eat, and he was just- so, so angry. I actually hated him at first, honestly.” He has never even admitted it to Will, but he probably knows. “I thought he was a bully too. We weren’t friends when we were really little- none of the other kids liked me- and he was friends with them. And, well, then his father died and he wasn’t friends with anyone.”

Morgana shifts, and looks back at the window, allowing him a moment to compose himself.

“He was lonely, though. He just needed someone to be kind to him, and then he wasn’t so bad. Still kind of a prat though. Like Arthur. It’s just that people are able to be stronger when they don’t feel alone.”

“Yes,” she agrees, her voice cracking.

“Morgana?” He stands, “Are you alright? No one will let Uther hurt you, you must know that.”

“It’s not that,” she wipes nervously at her eyes, hands trembling. “I have to confess something to you. I wanted you to go with Lancelot and Mordred tonight so you could escape.”

 _Oh,_ he thinks. How many more shocks can his heart take in one day? He is not as subtle as he thinks, apparently, if both Arthur and Morgana have caught him committing various treasons. Does the whole castle know?

“Do you remember the flowers you gave me? Ages ago now?”

“Yes,” he says simply. Of course he does. How can he not? He has wondered ever since.

“I kept one. The one I put in my hair when you first gave them to me. Look,” she gestures to the bedpost farthest from the door. When he goes to investigate he sees it there. Still a rich purple as fresh as the day he had grown it, tied to the bedpost with a fine ribbon, seeming like nothing other than a pretty decoration. A young lady’s token, nothing more. If he concentrates he can feel an echo of his wish from when he had grown them, for sweet dreams. Morgana continues as though she has not just upended his whole world, “I thought that someone would notice that they didn’t wilt, but I couldn’t bear to be rid of all of them.”

“Why not?” He cannot help but ask, feeling very still.

“They helped me. I don’t know what you did to them, but they eased my nightmares. I didn’t even need those awful potions anymore. Or perhaps it is just that you are right and that things are easier to bear when I am not alone.”

“Oh, Morgana,” he holds his hand out to her, “of course you aren’t alone!” He feels wretched, all this time Morgana had been suffering, and he hadn’t even known. Instead of taking his hand she flings her arms around his neck, crying in earnest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmurs into her hair over and over.

“They aren’t just dreams, they are omens, they are magic,” she wetly says into his chest, “and I thought I was going _mad_!”

“You aren’t mad! I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I should have known, I’m sorry,” he can’t seem to stop apologizing, he feels as though he can never apologize enough. He can’t imagine what she must have been feeling all this time, the horrible fear, with no one to tell her that she wasn’t a monster, that her soul was good and just. He had Hunith as he grew, but she had Uther. She doesn’t weep for long, even as overwrought as she must feel, pulling back from him and wiping her eyes roughly, her chin up and unashamed.

“It’s not your fault, I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. Not even you - not even after I knew about you. I’ve been so frightened. I have felt nothing _but_ alone, and I can’t stand it any longer! Uther would have me killed, and-”

“He won’t!” Merlin insists, “I would never let him, Arthur would never let him. Gwen would stage a revolt herself, before either of us could get to him, and Lancelot would follow her.”

Morgana smiles wetly at him, snorting indelicately.

He wipes at his own eyes, “You aren’t alone, I promise.”

“Neither are you,” she insists. Her nose is red and snotty, and her eyes are bloodshot, but she looks as regal as Merlin has ever seen. He's proud to know her. He feels the truth of it ringing through him clear as a song, the absolute certainty of it.

“I know,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, thank you! Things will be diverging further now, so hopefully it will be interesting - thanks once more for reading!


	8. Merlin Fights A Matter of a Delicate Nature

Merlin wakes slowly in the morning to bright sunlight, and he is still wearing the fur of a mouse. He is curled up on top of one of Morgana’s many fluffy pillows, set up on a chair where he can see the door. No one had tried to enter all night.

The first rays of dawn had already started to spread across the sky when he had finally closed his eyes and been unable to open them again, too weary. Now his head aches as it always does when he has gotten too little sleep, and his eyes don’t want to open at all. He forces himself to blink. He must have been very deeply asleep. There was something to be said for sleeping on a pillow larger than the house you grew up in, and many times taller than your own small body. He wonders if Morgana would be willing to let him steal this pillow. He rubs his eyes with his paws and curls into a little ball, unwilling to get up just yet.

“That is the dearest thing I have ever seen,” Morgana laughs gaily at him. Merlin hasn’t seen himself as a mouse, but he knows he is small enough to stand on a flower and not cause the stem to bend. He probably _is_ very cute, and he allows himself to be a touch vain in his last moments of warm sleepiness before changing back.

“What are you doing awake already?” He asks, not feeling very functional. He is sad to discover the unfortunate truth that the pillow is not quite as nice when he is a human. Morgana sits across her table from him, already dressed for the day. Her eyes light up at the easy display of magic, flickering briefly to the door. He knows the instinct well.

“I couldn’t sleep at all, too much going through my mind. I’m glad you got some rest though.” She seems in a very buoyant mood despite the lack of sleep, not that he can blame her. He can recall the giddy relief when Lancelot had been so understanding towards him, and he can only imagine she feels that now - maybe several times over.

After many hours talking she had eventually shut the screen between her bed and her antechamber where he slept, and it was only then that it occurred to him how much trust and risk had been involved with him staying through the night. If a man were to be discovered overnight in Morgana’s chambers it would be a scandal at best, but with Uther’s mood lately probably a beheading. So no man slept in Morgana’s chambers, a neat solution that amused them both.

“Not much rest,” he confesses, “I did try and stay up, I promise. No one tried to come in though. I think that Lancelot must have been successful, it’s been quiet all night.”

“And all morning,” she confirms, “if they’d been caught there would have been an announcement in the courtyard already.”

She hesitates, looking once more at the locked door. “Will you show me more magic?” She asks, leaning towards him, “Before Gwen comes to get me up?”

He had shown her a variety of things as they spoke last night, just what was quiet and unobtrusive enough to not bring the guards pouring in. His own desire to learn and see more magic had yet to stop either, not for the whole of his life, so he doubted her curiosity would be sated with an hours worth of demonstration.

“Will you tell Gwen, do you think?” Merlin asks, thinking of what magic to do. “She would understand, and she worries about you so.” He realizes how that sounds and corrects himself, “Not that you should feel as though you have to!”

“Will you tell Arthur?” She shoots back, unoffended. She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “I might, at least eventually. I know she worries about my dreams, but… it was frightening enough to talk about it with you, I don’t need another tearful airing of it just yet. I know she wouldn’t tell, and yet…”

“I won’t tell either,” he reassures her.

“I know you won’t.”

“Alright, enough of that - watch!” And he proceeded to show off - he wasn’t sure who was having more fun with it. The tiny motes of colorful light that he had dreamed of did delight her, and turning into a falcon made her clap her hands together over her mouth. She had him catch every pillow she threw at him without using his hands - he had firmly said no when she picked up a vase - and light and put out a candle three times in a row from across the room before there was a knock at the door.

Morgana gestured for him to hide before straightening her dress and squaring her shoulders. Unlatching the door only reveals Gwen laden down with a heaping tray of food however, and the tension leaves them both.

“My Lady,” Gwen greets, coming through to set her load down on the table. The door shuts behind her, and Merlin comes out of his hiding spot to offer a cheerful wave. “And Merlin,” she smiles at him. “I thought you might be hungry. I’m so glad you’re both alright!”

“No one troubled you going home, did they?” He asks.

“I was fine, it was the rest of you I was worried about. No one came, did they?”

“We were undisturbed,” Morgana replies. “Worried for nothing.”

“I’m so glad!” Gwen has started preparing tea, and over her shoulder she smiles. “I hope Lancelot returns safely soon as well,” and when she returns to her task Morgana shares a knowing look with Merlin.

“I’m certain he will,” Morgana reassures her. “Come both of you, and eat with me, I’m sure it will be a long day again. Uther won’t be pleased,” her words are ominous, but her smile is very satisfied.

***

The king is _not_ pleased.

Camelot feels the weight of his temper, Arthur in particular, but there is little he can do - the chase is already lost.

The searching spreads through the citadel, city, market, through the lower town, and eventually into the woods and farmland beyond. Although it is a waste of time Arthur says nothing, and returns unsuccessful each day. Uther is not forgiving of these failures, but the prince does not flinch under the disappointment of his father. There is no humiliation or disdain that can move him, remaining stalwart in his decision to lie in order to protect Mordred and the druids.

Merlin feels his respect grow for him each time he endures Uther’s stern dissatisfaction and gives nothing away. He knows how badly Arthur wishes to please his father. If he had ever feared that Arthur would feel regret for his defiance the notion has left him entirely now. He’s at Arthur’s side as they comb the woods, having learned from Mordred precisely where the druid camp lies, and making sure they never come near it. Though since he’s never quite mastered the system of hand signals the knights use he mostly uses various expressions and eyebrow movements to make sure Arthur knows where to go. Or not go, as the case may be. He’s pretty sure the knights think him even odder now than they already did.

Despite the tension that has settled over Camelot, much of his time with Arthur and his friends seems lighter than air. They had united in a noble purpose, and succeeded - even if no one must ever know. On his own end Merlin tries to make the rest of Arthur’s day as smooth as possible in thanks, and knows that he has taken to smiling at the prince gormlessly for no apparent reason. He knows it because Arthur keeps telling him so.

“Stop it,” the prince orders, as Merlin straightens his collar. “You look like you’ve taken a blow to the head, people will think I beat you.”

Merlin attempts to adopt a look of blank subservience, but he’s not quite sure he can pull it off.

“Not that either,” Arthur criticizes, alarmed.

Merlin bites his tongue so he doesn’t stick it out right in his face.

“It’s not as though I’ve done anything anyway,” Arthur turns his head to the side, uncomfortable, “you’ve been acting like I’ve wrought a miracle with my own two hands, when all I did was allow myself to be persuaded to not send a child to his death.”

“We both know it’s not so straightforward as that. It’s hard to question a king, I imagine it is even harder when he’s also your father.”

“It deserved to be questioned,” Arthur says with self-recrimination. Merlin never would have thought that the prince would be so plagued with self doubt, but the shadow of the throne is a long one. “I should have questioned it sooner.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Merlin gives an order of his own. “You learned something, and you acted. I know it’s not my place to say so, but I’m proud of you,” Arthur’s collar is long since straightened, but Merlin hasn’t stepped away. He doesn’t respond. For someone so accustomed to courtly adulation, he always seems so out of sorts to receive genuine praise of his character. “But if you want worse service, sire, all you have to do is ask.”

At this Arthur groans, “This is how it’s supposed to be all the time, you know - how long can you keep it up? Another week do you think? Or will you be distracted by a butterfly today and I won’t have a bath and you’ll forget my sword in a field?”

“Oh, no, sire,” Merlin earnestly blinks, “it would take at least two butterflies.” Arthur steps back from him, rolling his eyes, his smile his crooked and genuine one.

Any day now Merlin thinks the king must call off the search, the waste of resources alone should be cause enough. But that day is not today, and they head back to the woodland on horseback - and Merlin graciously allows Arthur to hear him coddling Chestnut just to amuse him.

Since this whole outing is merely a show Merlin finds it harder and harder to focus each wasted day. Over a fortnight of this, and there is so much else he could be doing. His magical studies are nearly impossible for his mind to put to the side. He’s devoted some time each evening to his new projects, and continues to surprise himself with his own dedication. It’s easy though - magic _never_ manages to bore him. He knew right away that the candle holder was made of a copper alloy, but now he has learned that copper conducts magic as well as it conducts heat - and is a good base for many enchantments. It’s why his copper tub was so easy to make, he supposes, and wonders if he can convince Gaius to let him make it again.

Probably not.

After all, he’s ruined one cauldron already with his experimenting. He can’t regret it too much, though, as it had been very fun indeed to shape the metal like wet clay with his bare hands. To poke it and have his finger carry straight through, and to separate the metals into little glimmering pieces - but once he had done so he could not get it to reshape for the life of him. He had deciphered most of the runes as well, but couldn’t quite manage how they linked together. Soon, he was sure! It probably wasn’t anything that exciting, or Gaius wouldn’t have let him keep it - but he still yearns to _know_.

“Merlin, get off the horse,” Arthur is shaking his head at him, bemused. They’ve stopped to let the horses rest and to feed themselves, and he’s the only one still mounted. Embarrassing, but him being inattentive is hardly the worst thing the knights have seen in their service. Arthur’s easier mood seems the carry through the group, the pressure that had lingered like a dark cloud in the city is not as present now.

There will be no fire or camp, they carry their own rations, and there is not much for Merlin to do other than tend to the horses and a few other little tasks. It keeps his hands busy as he appreciates the lush greenery where they have stopped. The moss and thick growth across the earth smells heady, bright wood anemone speckled through the dark green like stars. The shade of the canopy protects them from the worst of the sun. Only a short length away he can see where a large tree had been felled, maybe years ago, with honeysuckle growing over it like a carpet. It’s supposed to be lucky, he thinks, although maybe that only counts when it grows over your doorway. His mother had taught that it represents fidelity - to diligently stay your path, no matter how it winds. Under his feet he can feel the soil saturated with life, buzzing. The druids are not here, but they _have_ been, he knows - the earth feels… different. It remembers them faintly. It’s so _alive_ here. He reaches a hand down to touch a flower. Have they-?

“Merlin,” Arthur calls to him, breaking his concentration. He standing away from the other knights and frowning slightly. He waves his hand for Merlin to join him, and so the warlock goes, slightly concerned. What chore has he forgotten? Or what private worry can’t be shared near the others? “Look,” Arthur nods somberly, sighing, “your butterflies. I’ll never have a hot bath again.”

Merlin can’t stop a loud burst of laughter. He looks up, and there they are, amongst the ivy and above the brambles. They are lovely little holly blues, common but pretty, the color of the sky. “Shall I find a field to forget your sword in, sire?”

“Not today Merlin,” Arthur smiles back at him, his eyes the same shade as the butterflies. “Look at them all,” his voice is quietly awed. “I don’t know that I’ve seen so many since I was a child.” He watches them float through the air for a time, peaceful. “Walk with me,” he instructed eventually, an odd tone in his voice, and ambled further into the woods, away from his knights.

The sun is dappled through the treetops, and the walk is an easy one. Arthur doesn’t speak again until they are far enough away from the others that they would not be overheard. He sits underneath a gnarled old oak tree and tips his head back against the trunk to look at the golden sunlight. He gestures for Merlin to sit beside him.

Arthur lightly clears his throat, somewhat awkward, “There is something of a… delicate nature I would speak to you about. You can refuse. No harm will come to you.”

Merlin feels his traitorous heart thump inside his chest and a flush rise up the back of his neck.

“What is it?”

“You are not from Camelot. Where you lived, in Escetir, did you encounter much of the druids?”

 _Oh_. Merlin feels a bit silly, of course. “Not much,” he says, “Ealdor is very small, not many of any sort passed through. And Cenred didn’t seem have much care for them. I’m sorry, I don’t know about them either.”

“But magic is not banned.”

It’s not a question, and Arthur knows already, but Merlin answers anyway. “No, it is not banned.”

Arthur has clearly made up his mind once he’s begun, because he does not hesitate to forge ahead. “Did you encounter much magic?”

 _A delicate nature indeed_ , Merlin’s nerves set alight. At least he was given the option to refuse. “We shared a border with Camelot,” he hedges, “and Cenred was not attentive. So we did most of our trading with your kingdom. Ealdor would not have risked harboring a sorcerer openly.” He pushes the toes of his boots into the earth, and catches a loamy scent.

“Was there a reason Cenred didn’t ‘have much care’ for the druids?” Arthur is unrelenting.

“We didn’t speak much,” Merlin scoffs, “what with him being a king and me being a peasant.”

“That hardly stops you with me.” Arthur elbows him.

“You’re a better man than he, you won’t kill me for what I _say_ to you. If your breakfast is late, maybe.” Merlin elbows him back, and his elbows are sharper. Tries to elaborate, sighing, “I didn’t know him, of course. I've never even seen him. I can only guess. Ealdor doesn’t produce much of anything - we’re along the mountains and the earth is hard. He only cares to keep it because it shares a border with Camelot. Even though magic isn’t banned if it wasn’t of use to him why would he bother? Druids would hardly join up for his army.” He shrugs his shoulders against the bark of the tree, daring to glance over at Arthur.

“He’s power hungry.” Once again it is not a question. Cenred has a certain reputation, and it is a well earned one.

“I’m sure if a powerful magic user showed up he would put them to _awful_ use,” Merlin confirms, tries not to think about it. “Or he’d try anyway. The druids seem to tend the land more than, you know, start fights. Peaceful isn’t any good to him.”

Arthur hums, and folds his arms over his knees. “Peaceful magic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any.”

Merlin itches to tell him. Opens his mouth, closes it. The longing has hit him like a physical ache. He could name every time he had used magic peacefully right at that moment, if there were not a score of armed men who would come running at Arthur’s shout. But the scales that sit inside his heart have begun to tip, the weight of his secrets becoming heavy. He swallows thickly.

“One time a trader came through, and did some magic as work. To pay for a stay in Idina’s barn out of the rain. They dealt in fabrics, mostly, and they said the dye they made would never fade. No one could afford any, so maybe they were lying I guess.” He was rambling, “Anyway, the trader could wash clothes with a flick of her finger. She cleaned all of Idina’s laundry, and the sheep, too. ‘Cause of the wool and all. Cleanest sheep I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Arthur was biting the inside of his cheek, and Merlin couldn’t read his face. “And nobody minded?” He asked, “about the laundry?”

“Well, Idina had about six very messy children, so no one could really blame her.”

“Ah,” Arthur nodded sagely, “of course. And the sheep? Did they mind?”

“They never told me if they did.” That wasn’t so bad.

Arthur took a great breath in, and let it out in a harsh woosh. “In Camelot we are taught that magic will inevitably ruin the soul of any person foolish enough to take it up. I have borne witness to many magical creatures beasts and man alike who mean to do harm to my people, some of which you have seen. You came into my servicewhen a witch tried to kill me - and it was not the first time. But… the druids are peaceful. I see the truth of it with my own eyes. I see how well they care for the land. My father’s land - _my_ land that would have seen them killed to the very last of them. And I cannot reconcile it,” he admits. His hand trails through the rich soil at his side, brushes against the root of the tree.

Merlin knows what this costs Arthur to admit. That either of them could be killed just for the saying of it. He wants to reassure him, tell him how very brave he is, but doesn’t know how.

“I am not from Camelot. I was taught… I was taught that magic can be dangerous,” he isn’t lying, “but so are bandits, and kings, and rockslides.” He hope that Arthur will not hate him, but once he has begun he cannot seem to stop himself. “I think that too much power left unchecked can corrupt. I just don’t think it matters much what kind of power it is. Magic, or swords, or armies. Any can kill as easily as the others. At least magic can clean your laundry,” he finishes weakly.

“But what of all the magical creatures that attack? What of the Griffin? _Why_ , if not that their source is itself evil?” His voice has become desperate, and Merlin begins to suspect what he would really like to ask.

Merlin wants to know if Arthur had also spent late nights _wondering_ over their encounter in Howden. Had he been alone with no one to share his burdens with, just like Morgana - and Merlin failed to notice once again? Perhaps that been what he was looking for in the library, hoping to find the truth in the long history of harvest records. If Uther had truly saturated his kingdom with magical blood, and now it was dying a slow death, poisoned.

“It’s not really… like that. In Ealdor. I can count on my hands the amount of times I laid eyes on a magical being before coming to Camelot. I saw a will o’ wisp once I think, and I’ve seen sprites playing in the forest sometimes. For a while my mother put milk out because she thought we might have a visitor, but I don’t really know. She always said they were reflections of nature. And that they were capricious, like nature is. I don’t think nature is good or evil, it’s just itself.”

Arthur nods tightly, unhappy. Merlin wishes he could take that unhappiness away from him, but it’s so important that Arthur knows the world for what it _is_ that he would not erase it even if he could. He can only promise to help. He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand in his, not letting him halfheartedly tug away. He’s not sure what he can say to comfort his friend now, but he does not want Arthur to leave these woods feeling hopeless.

“Look around yourself now, though, please. It’s beautiful here, and loved. The druids haven’t abandoned it, and neither have you. And for whatever it’s worth, I won’t abandon you either.” He lets go of Arthur’s hand, feeling a swell of embarrassment, but can’t bring himself to regret saying so aloud, even if it wasn’t their usual way. He would tease Arthur tomorrow, and Arthur would poke him back. But just for now.

Instead Arthur pulls his hand back, and clasps it a bit too tightly. He brings their joined hands up to his face where he presses them first to his brow, and then to his lips. It is not quite a kiss, he just holds the back of Merlin’s hand there, breathing roughly for a moment. “Thank you, Merlin,” he says tiredly.

Later that night after Arthur has had a bath - and a hot one, no matter what he said, he holds Merlin gently by the wrist before he can leave.

“What you said to me, this morning, and-” but when Arthur doesn’t continue Merlin has to prompt him. He starts again, “After all of this is settled, and it is safe, would you lead me to the druids? The path Mordred showed you?” Arthur does not phrase it like an order.

“I would,” Merlin answers slowly, because it is the truth, “I know you mean them no harm.” He is certain of that, but it still poses a risk to them. To be followed, to be afraid. “But tell me why?”

Arthur is a prince, and does not have to answer to a servant, but he does.

“There are some questions I would ask them, that I would dearly like the truth of. I do not know if they have the answers,” Arthur is steady as he meets Merlin’s eyes, “but I seek them nonetheless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boy has questions!


	9. Merlin Fights Bad Manners

“I think I’ve got it,” Merlin says, feeling his chin move against the table where he has laid his head. The candle holder that he has come to resent sits in front of him, shining in a way he finds mocking. “I was getting tripped up because the runes seemed contradictory - how can a light cast no light? But it’s just that only the person holding it can see the light, yes?” He rolls his head slightly to look at Gaius, but doesn’t lift it. He can’t. He is weary. So weary. “Please say yes,” he begs.

Gaius tries to keep his face stoic for a moment but can’t hold it for long.

“Yes,” he confirms. “You’ve got the way of it. It’s called a Thieves Light, and if activated properly, only the bearer of it can see the light it casts. Very good, Merlin.”

Merlin supposes that is probably a very clever thing, but he mostly is happy to have gotten the right answer. Finally.

Gaius lifts it up and elaborates, “To use it, tie a strand of your hair around the base of the candle, here, in a triple knot” he shows him, “and invoke the magic. Once it is lit it will never be put out, and none shall see it is lit but the one who owns it.”

“Wait, it never runs out?” An everlasting candle seems nice.

“Not until it is put out by the caster, no. For you and the amount of reading you do I think it would be rather more accurate to call it a Scholar’s Light.”

Merlin doesn’t mention that he can and _does_ make a light of his own as easy as breathing, and hold it for hours without noticing. Sometimes the harder bit is remembering to stop before he goes to sleep. Gaius still has a ‘no magic unless it’s an emergency’ policy, after all - but Merlin’s budget can’t afford to keep candles lit all night as he reads. If you ask him that _is_ an emergency. With that in mind Gaius probably thought this would be a very pleasant thing for Merlin to have, so he musters a larger smile.

“That is wonderful, thank you Gaius!” He gamely plucks a hair from his head, only to find that it is too short to tie even one knot with. He thinks his eye might be twitching, so he lays his head back down on the table. It muffles his frustrated yell.

Gaius laughs at him, the heartless man.

An excuse to avoid the barber surgeon at least. The man had been overly complimentary of Merlin’s teeth from the very beginning.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to keep it?” He asks Gaius.

“I try and limit my collection of magical items, thank you Merlin.”

Maybe Morgana or Lancelot would like it. It seems a waste to have it sit unused. Or Arthur. Lately he only wondered if there was anything he would _not_ give Arthur, if only he would ask.

Merlin had at some point finally decided to tell the prince about his magic.

He had not yet, but he would.

He could not say exactly what moment it was when he had reached this decision, only that it seemed very simple after the conversation under the oak tree. It merely felt as though he went to sleep one night, and the next morning he had woken up - and his heart had settled. It almost seems absurd to him now to think of how he had worried himself sick over it, and the indecision had fled him leaving nothing behind but a clean calm.

 _After I guide him to the druids,_ he had told himself. So even if the worst should come to pass and he is banished Arthur will still have the opportunity to learn what he can from them. Merlin wasn’t willing to use that as a bargaining piece. He would have acceptance on his own merit or not at all.

It brought him no small measure of peace. One way or another, he would be done with it. No one else knew - he couldn’t bring himself to speak with Gaius or Morgana about it, who might try and dissuade him, or even Lancelot, who would encourage him.

It was his choice alone, as it had to be.

Of course they might not be able to leave Camelot for any business of their own before Arthur is an old man - not if the king has anything to do with it. The search for the escaped druids may have finally ended, but it has only made Uther more keen to show the might of the crown in other ways. Arthur is being run off of his feet, and by extension so is Merlin.

In and out they go constantly, to the city, to the towns, to be seen doing something as much as actually doing anything. Leon has taken over training the knights almost entirely, which had always been the prince’s work he was most proud of. Merlin knows he doesn’t resent Leon for this and is grateful someone is there to take up the slack - but he would rather be doing it himself. Arthur may not be as much of a brat as Merlin had thought when they first met, but there are still things he was possessive over. Things that were _his_ , and the knights were among them.

He knows Arthur is frustrated.

All Merlin can do is try his best to give Arthur things to laugh and be lighthearted about, and for the most part he is surprised at how well it works. Perhaps Arthur too had woken up one day to a realization, just like Merlin had about his magic. Only it was instead an easy acceptance that Merlin was allowed to make him happy. It’s a nice thought, even as it makes his heart thump in foolhardy hope.

Time seems to move swiftly, the busy days barely giving him time to blink. They have ousted bandits, they have dispatched a kelpie, they have overseen relief efforts in Greenswood. Today, however, they are being sent to a tavern that keeps having their drink stolen. Merlin is sure that there is some deeper politicking at work, or some punishment or lesson in humility that is intended for Arthur by sending him to something that would usually be beneath his station as prince.

Or perhaps the king is merely running out of tasks.

No matter what the reason Merlin cannot hide his amusement as they stand in front of The Crooked Plough, unable to stop the occasional snicker. Arthur is for once the one woefully out of place. No one here would have any call to recognize the prince of Camelot on sight, but his clothes give him away as a man of means in an instant. In deference to the weather turning chillier Merlin is wearing his well-loved green shirt, and _he_ is perhaps overdressed.

“Very mature, Merlin,” Arthur says haughtily, before pushing the door inwards. It is only the early evening, so there are few patrons, and none of them look up at Arthur’s rather dramatic entrance. Merlin follows him, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Behind the bar a stoutly set woman sets down a barrel of ale that Merlin doesn’t think he could lift without magic.

“Might I help you, my…uh, lord?” She looks Arthur up and down, the meaning of her question clear.

“Yes, there was a complaint made to the the guardhouse regarding theft. Is that correct?” Arthur does not introduce himself or clarify his station.

“Aye, that’s right. And they sent,” she gestures vaguely, and looks back at the doorway, as though some guards might suddenly appear instead, “you?”

“They have,” Arthur takes a step forward and nods seriously, looking the very picture of stately diligence. Merlin follows behind him, and when the barkeeper peers at him over Arthur’s shoulder she gives him a once over followed by a lascivious wink. Merlin has to duck his head into Arthur’s back to hide his shocked laughter. Of course Arthur is used to Merlin by now, and does not budge, merely continuing on as if this is all perfectly normal. A long haired man at the bar with a handsome face is watching them looking very amused, and when he catches Merlin’s eye he blows him a kiss to try and embarrass him further.

“Well, that’s fine enough I suppose. I know who’s doing it, too, isn’t that right Gwaine?”

“It’s not me,” the man argues, smiling and unoffended.

“Then who else?” She slams a hand on the bartop.

He spreads his hands wide, “I assume that is what these fine gentlemen are here to find out, my love.”

“Every night, you’re here, and every night some drink goes missing, drained to the drop,” she eyes him suspiciously.

“I pay though, don’t I?”

“Do you pay for _all_ of it?” Arthur interrupts.

“I do, my lord,” He doesn’t get up from his seat, but gives a flourishing bow, “I am but a humble wanderer, I can only fall upon your mercy and hope to prove my innocence to you.”

Arthur sighs deeply, looking heavenward, “And how do you plan on doing that?”

“I guess you’ll just have to keep an eye on me all night,” He sends another wink at the two of them, drinking deeply from his tankard. “I don’t suppose you dice?”

“Oh, dice, how fun,” Merlin says with his brightest ‘innocent boy from the country’ smile. Arthur snorts.

***

It is several hours later, and whatever steps Arthur has taken to discovering the thief Merlin does not know them. He has dutifully been keeping his eye on Gwaine, with Arthur coming by to make sure he’s not drinking too much every once and a while.

Merlin is _fantastic_ at dice. Or, fantastic at cheating at dice. He’d feel worse about it, but Gwaine was a cheerful sort even when losing - and it’s not like he was going to _keep_ the money. It was very satisfying though, to have Gwaine’s confident bragging turn into amused disbelief, and to have Arthur come by and give him a pat on the back while turning a mocking smile on Gwaine.

“So what kind of lord is he, your man?” He pressed his boot against Merlin’s under the table, blatantly and shamelessly nudging him as Merlin made a throw.

“A good one,” he says, dragging another coin across the table to his pile of winnings. Gwaine lets out a groan. He’d let the other man win a couple of times, but the disparity was noticeable. He felt a tiny bit guilty. “We should probably stop.”

“That might be true, I won’t have enough to pay my tab and then I _will_ be a thief,” He twirls one of his remaining coins in a dizzying spin through his fingers, “I don’t think I’ve met any _good_ lords before.”

“I’d tend to agree with you overall, but mine’s not too bad,” He’s not certain if Arthur hadn’t named himself for a reason or not, but he can take a hint.

“Doesn’t abuse you too terribly? Run you off your feet? Make you scrub his back in the bath?” He leaned in close to Merlin, practically sprawled across the table. It’s only been a short time in Gawaine’s company, but Merlin already knows better than to be shocked by the question.

“Oh, all that and worse,” He retorts, finding Arthur easily when he looks. He has his golden head down, earnestly discussing something or other with the proprietress. He has the same look of concentration about him that he does when he hears out the nobility, and Merlin feels a rush of fondness.

“Oh-ho?!” Gwaine cheers.

“Not like _that_ ,” Merlin swivels back to him, flushed.

His eyes are sparkling merrily as he agrees, “Of course, of course. So you won’t leave him and join me on my travels, I suppose? I could use a little bit of your luck.” He pokes at the tiny pile of coins in front of him, only half joking. He wiggles his eyebrows, and Merlin pretends to consider it.

“Think I’m alright where I am,” he admits.

Gwaine exhales dramatically, and pulls away as though he’s been injured.

“Losing that badly?” Arthur asks, sitting down next to Merlin.

“I am, your lordling, lost before I even got to put up a fight!” He cries out as Merlin rolls his eyes.

“Good,” Arthur says bluntly, and then ignores him entirely as the bearded man sputters, turning so his leg brushes up against Merlin’s. “The concern is not so much the value of the drinks, and more that the thefts are from a locked cellar, and Mary has the only key. There is an empty bottle or cask always left behind, so someone’s drinking it there. I’ve seen no one enter or leave, but I think we should watch through the night and see if the thief returns.” He looks back as Gwaine, “And that means you stay as well.”

“You couldn’t pay me to leave,” Gwaine promises, hand over his heart.

Arthur looks at him in flat judgement and gets up to go back to his position near the cellar door.

“Let’s go then!” Merlin stands cheerfully, pushing some of his winnings back towards Gwaine.

“What’s this? I’m a man who can accept a fair loss, no need for that,” he refuses.

“It wasn’t _that_ fair,” Merlin admits.

“I’m only growing more intrigued, I hope you realize,” Gwaine eyes him as he pockets the coins. “A man of many mysteries.”

Merlin tried to look innocent. It was possible he shouldn’t have used his magic so frivolously, but it was also very good fun.

“That work for you often?” Gwaine asked. “The big blue eyes thing?”

“Often enough,” Merlin gave it up for lost, grinning as he headed towards Arthur.

“You got me with it before the dice, I don’t fall for the same trick twice,” he waved his finger at Merlin.

“I bet you do!”

“Maybe this time,” Gwaine admitted, “it’s very effective.”

The cellar is able to be accessed from behind the bar, a narrow stairway leading to a heavy door. Arthur has positioned himself at a table with a clear vantage point, despite the growing crowd, and in such a way as to force Merlin and Gwaine to sit to either side of him.

And so they wait, long enough that as the hours pass even Merlin is running out of things to talk about.

“I’m going to have a look,” Gwaine is the one to lose his patience first.

“I believe Mary entrusted the key to me, not to you.”

“We’ll _all_ go have a look then,” he stands and starts to march over the the cellar door.

Arthur follows him, intending to berate him, and Merlin follows Arthur, because he is bored. But at the door Gwaine shushes at them before Arthur even opens his mouth.

“Listen,” he insists, whispering.

As they all attempt to cluster close to the door it becomes clear there isn’t enough space for three grown men. The silent tussle that ensues would be humiliating if anyone had been there to witness it, and ends with Arthur pretending to have not seen Merlin slip through while he elbows Gwaine. Nearer the door the noise becomes clearer even over the boisterous sounds of the tavern - singing.

Arthur shuffles Merlin backwards with a grip on his shirt, and gestures for silence as he brings out the key. He’s down the stairs in a flash, hand on his sword but not drawn, only to confront nothing.

The cellar has no one in it but the three of them, and an empty bottle.

“Show yourself,” Arthur orders, but there is not enough space for a man to hide, and no one reveals themselves. There is a bit of inebriated giggling, however.

Merlin begins to have a suspicion. The book on magical creatures that he had found in the secret room opens itself in his mind. He ducks low, and sees a tiny shadow hidden amongst the casks. When he stands again he reaches out for Arthur’s sleeve and gives it a tug, trying to get him to go back up the stairs.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” he insists.

“What are you talking about,” Arthur pulls a face at him, “we should find the thief.”

“Oh, we’ll never find them, they are far, far too clever for the likes of us,” and he pulls Arthur backwards, pushing Gwaine behind him as he goes. He tries to communicate with his face that really, they _should go talk upstairs, Arthur_.

With a last long look around the sealed cellar, Arthur unwillingly allows himself to be led away. He refuses to budge past the door once they leave, however, lest someone try and slip away.

“ _Mer_ -lin, what on earth was that about?”

“I think I might know what it is? And I think it’s not an ordinary thief?” He doesn’t really want to talk about this openly. “Well, he’s not going anywhere, trust me on that. There’s no reason we can’t talk about this in a room, or outside or somewhere no one will hear us. If you know what I mean.”

“No one ever knows what you mean, Merlin, since you never speak any sense,” Arthur complains. Gwaine looks between them, fascinated.

“Oh, come on, please just trust me this once,” he begs. He tries the big blue eyes thing, hoping Gwaine was right and that it was very effective.

Arthur sighs, but gives in. “Stop that. Fine, we’ll see if there is a room. And you will _explain_ yourself.”

“I will, I will!” But Arthur is already turning away, waving down Mary.

“What a delightful evening this has been,” Gwaine slaps the warlock on the back.

“You can probably go now,” Merlin says, “we know you aren’t the one raiding the cellar.”

“You couldn’t pay me to leave,” Gwaine reminds him, and gives him a light punch on the arm.

_Great._

Arthur waves them up after him, and together they are led to a small room at the inn above the tavern by Mary. Gwaine makes himself comfortable on the bed immediately, and Merlin wrings his hands a bit.

“Well?” Arthur waves a hand, “Can you explain that nonsense?”

Mary hovers at the door, interested, “You figure out who it is?”

“Uh,” he stutters. “It is a matter of a somewhat… delicate nature?” He says meaningfully at Arthur, who just blinks at him uncomprehendingly. “Remember? The oak tree?”

“Oh!”

Mary and Gwaine share a look of incomprehension, and Merlin feels very put upon indeed.

“But maybe Mary should stay? It involves her, I mean - not that she’s _done_ anything, she wouldn’t have, it’s not her _fault_ is all-”

Arthur holds out a hand, stopping him.

“Perhaps let’s just hear it from the beginning? Gwaine, you may go.”

The other man just shuffles deeper into the bed, arms behind his head.

“At least take your boots off the bed, wretched man,” Mary reprimands him, and he’s quick to correct himself. It seems clear he’s only afraid of one person here, and it’s not Arthur.

“I think it’s not a man at all, but a Clurichaun,” Merlin sees no recognition, so he elaborates. “A spirit, or a sprite? Who likes to drink.”

Mary’s eyes have gone wide, “I’m no witch,” she pleads. “I’ve done nothing to bring any spirits here!”

“Of course not!” Merlin tries to calm her, “You haven’t done anything wrong, you couldn’t have even summoned it if you wanted to - and you aren’t in trouble, right?” He looks at Arthur, “Right?”

“Quite right,” he nods after a long pinch of the bridge of his nose. He clears his throat. “If you have done nothing and are the victim of a haunting we will try to help you if we can.”

“We can’t,” Merlin says.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts in reprimand, as Mary slides down to sit on the little stool besides the door, Gwaine leaping off the bed to rush to her side.

“I’m sorry, that was indelicate,” he apologizes, “but we can’t. I mean, there are some things someone could do, but not really?”

“Merlin, for pity’s sake, speak clearly!”

“Well, it’s just that even if you move the whole tavern to Mercia he’ll just come with you! You could _maybe_ get him out if you wore all your clothes on inside out and chased him with iron, but he can come back in through any keyhole. And then you could get him to stay out _maybe_ with hag-stones over every door and window, but doing magic to get rid of magic would probably get you arrested, let’s be honest. And it’s more like they aren’t that bad to begin with?”

“He’s stealing from her, how is that not that bad?”

“He’s not stealing that _much_ though, and he’s doing some good things here, too!”

“Like what?!” Arthur gestures with outrage to the clearly distraught Mary, and Merlin thinks he really could have handled this better. Gwaine is looking at him like he’s mad. He swallows nervously.

“Well, no one else will steal anything, he wouldn’t let them. And the wine or any other drink here will never sour or leak. And if you feed him he’ll leave you gifts sometimes and make you lucky, protect the household. They like to be flattered, have their stories and their songs listened to. They are mischievous sometimes, and love to drink, but they aren’t evil or anything. Or this one doesn’t seem to be evil at least, I’m sure some of them are.”

“I don’t want to be hanged,” Mary wails.

“You will not be hanged, you have done nothing wrong,” Arthur reassures her. “Forgive my servant, please, he’s an _idiot._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, “I really am, that was done very poorly of me, I’m so sorry - but it’s also true.”

“And you know this how?” Arthur presses.

“I read it in a book?” He realizes how weak his voice sounds. “Please believe me. If you go down and try and talk to him you’ll see. Flatter him a bit and he’ll come out and share a drink with you. He’ll be wearing red and be no taller than the height of your hand. If all that is true will you believe me about the rest?”

Arthur sighs tensely, “A book.”

“Gaius has a lot of books.”

“I am going back to the cellar,” Arthur informs the room at large, “to see if this is in fact what you think. _Stay here_ ,” he points at Merlin. He turns to face Gwaine, who has been speechless. “I can’t believe I’m asking _you_ to be the responsible one, but watch him.”

Gwaine hasn’t given the impression that he is prone to taking orders, but he merely nods in agreement.

“Wait, I’m going too!” Mary stands, “It’s my tavern, I’ll see with my own eyes.”

Arthur holds the door open for her as though she were a lady of the court, and they leave together. The silence feels very oppressive.

“I don’t think that went very well, mate,” Gwaine finally speaks.

“Ugh,” Merlin flops to sit on the edge of the bed, and holds his head in his hands. Somehow between his conversation with Arthur that he felt went so well, and his own thoughts on magic he had gotten ahead of himself. Of course Mary was terrified to hear she had a spirit in her cellar, even if it wasn’t an evil one. That would be difficult anywhere, but especially here. In Camelot of all places. And he had been so tactless about it! “Ugh,” he says again, louder.

“Tell me about it,” Gwaine agrees.

***

They stay the night.

Merlin feels unbearably awkward as he tries to sleep on the floor. No matter how he tosses and turns sleep won’t come. He wishes he could be a mouse again, and sleep on a pillow. But it probably still wouldn’t come, it’s his guilt that is eating away at him. Arthur is on the bed, and Merlin would bet anything that he isn’t asleep either.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispers.

“You spoke hastily and put her in a poor position, Merlin,” Arthur’s voice comes immediately. “How was she to respond? Even if it’s not trying to cause trouble, her harboring a sprite could get her killed.”

“But she can’t get rid of him without using magic herself, and maybe not even then. He chose her tavern, she didn’t do anything wrong. And if I said nothing he’d still be here, she just wouldn’t know what was happening.”

The sheets rustle as Arthur rolls to his side. “I know.”

“What will happen?” Merlin looks up at him, searching his face.

“Magic needs to be reported to the crown and dealt with,” Arthur says, “and it has been reported to the crown.”

“Has it been dealt with, though?”

Arthur huffs and rolls back over.

“Arthur?”

“I’ve given her some money, for the stolen goods. As an apology for failing to stop the thief.”

“Your father won’t care for that,” Merlin whispers.

“It’s from my own funds, and it’s not even very much. He doesn’t have to know about it.” Arthur’s tone makes it clear that is the end of it.

“And she isn’t scared?”

“Probably a bit. You said he won’t come out of the cellar though. No one else has to discover this, and I won’t have her killed over something that she couldn’t help and can't get rid of. I promised her. Gwaine did too. Hopefully he’s a man of his word.” Although his tone seems doubtful.

Merlin wiggles over slightly and hooks his fingers through Arthur’s where they lay on top of the blanket. Gives them a tug so Arthur looks at him.

“You were kind to her,” Merlin praises him, “I was very insensitive.”

“Yes, you were rather a prat,” Arthur agrees immediately, squeezing his hand back before he lets go. “But don’t worry, I think she will still be good to you.”

“Wait, what do you mean? Arthur?” Merlin sits up, “Arthur?”

“Oh, I have given you away to her - and with a hefty dowry to boot, since you cause so much trouble.” Arthur continues, straight-faced, “I’m happy you’ve made a good match, but I will miss never getting my breakfast on time, and the way you always manage to trip over thin air. But who am I to stand in the way of love?”

Merlin lets out a gusty wheeze, falling back to the floor.

“Did you really read all of that in a book?” Arthur asks him.

“Yes. I started reading a lot about magical creatures after the Alp-luachra. I would have never known what it was - and that man would have died due to my ignorance. I’m supposed to be able to help people. As Gaius’s apprentice, you know?” He clarifies quickly. “I just want to help.”

Arthur scoffs, “I know _that,_ Merlin. You might want to work on your tact, though, for next time. I’d like to see that book of yours, though. Make sure there is nothing else we can do - she shouldn’t be forced to have a guest of either man or magic if she doesn’t want one. Even if he’s not out to do her harm, it is a trespass that she has no choice.”

Merlin hums in agreement. He wonders if he could get rid of the Clurichaun with magic. Probably. Maybe after he tells Arthur they can come back - assuming he isn’t banished - and see if Mary would like her cellar free of magic. Who knows? Maybe they’ll become friends.

“It was an ugly little thing,” Arthur murmurs, drifting off to sleep. “Face like a wrinkled up old apple.” Merlin bites his cheek so he doesn’t laugh and keep Arthur awake. “Can’t believe something that small can drink that much.”

Stranger things happen in Camelot all the time after all.


	10. Merlin Walks a Path

Another Samhain comes and goes, and another winter besides. Too busy and then too cold, they have not been able to leave the castle for the length of time needed to visit the druids. It isn’t until the first stirrings of spring that Uther indulges Arthur’s request to hunt - he merely waves permissively when Arthur says he wants to stretch his legs and have some solitude after the long dark winter.

If it is unusual for Arthur to go hunting alone, save Merlin, no one dares to say as much. It seems understood that it is a thin veneer for Arthur to leave the castle, but no one has aired any suspicion as to why. He’s a young man who has been pushed hard of late, and so that is the end of it in most minds.

Most minds.

Merlin has accepted he isn’t as subtle as he might hope, but he’s still surprised to be cornered by Morgana. He supposes she has an edge though, what with dreaming many ever fragmenting futures.

“I do understand, of course,” she says, watching him as he packs a bag, “why you want to tell him. I just fear for you. I wish I could go with you.” She has visited Gaius pretending she has a headache, and instead sits on Merlin’s little bed with her chin in her hand.

“He won’t kill me,” Merlin teases her, “I know you haven’t thought that in a long time. Probably yell at me, you won’t be sorry to miss that.”

“I’d still prefer to go if I could. I’ll worry. You’ll come back, won’t you? I’ve only just started learning from you.”

“Selfish,” he balks at her, “I see why you’re worried now!”

She grins at him widely, but is earnest when she continues, “I would miss you very much if you were to go. But if you have to stay with the druids to be safe, please promise me you will.”

“I won’t have to,” he shakes his head, but as she frowns at him he relents easily, “but if it makes you feel better, I’ll promise it to you. If they’d even have me.”

“Good, I’ll keep you to your word. As a reward. Here.” She holds out a pair of gloves to him. “A late birthday gift.”

“Morgana,” he chides lightly, “it’s too much-” and they are. They are subtle, but a nobleman’s gloves by any standard.

“Say ‘thank you, Morgana!’” She interrupts him.

He clicks his tongue at her, but he knows full well that she will not allow him to refuse, “Thank you, Morgana. Really. These are brilliant - I’ll come back with all my fingers now as well.” He hesitates, and an idea comes to him. “I have something for you, too.”

“Oh, what is it?”

He finds it easily, a light coating of dust over the candle holder that cleans away with a rub of his shirt cuff. Morgana raises an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t look like much, but I have an idea,” he explains, “If I may have a strand of your hair?”

She looks at him oddly but gives him a strand without complaint. He sits next to her and lets her watch as he ties it around the base of the candle and knots it three times. He turns it over and shows her the runes that ring the bottom, carved into the otherwise plain copper.

“After I light this you will be the only one to see the flame,” He taps her hair with a fingertip. “and the wick won’t run out until I put it out myself - or until I die. As long as it stays lit you’ll know I’ll come back.”

“A little bit morbid perhaps, but I will be glad to have it if it works as you say. Show me?”

He lights it with a thought, but he sees no flame. “Well, is it lit?”

“It is! You really don’t see it?”

“No, nothing! Try and blow it out.”

She does so, again and again, until she’s a little out of breath. “Oh, amazing! And it won’t put itself out?”

“Not according to Gaius anyway - you’ll have to tell me for certain when I come back. Will you and Gwen come see us off later?” He stands up and gathers his things. He has to go to Arthur and finish any other last minute preparations.

“We will,” she stands and gives him the hug that she wouldn’t be allowed to at the gates. “You’ll come back,” he’s not which of the two of him she is reminding.

“I’ll come back,” he promises.

***

Even though it was cold and a bit damp, and overall somewhat miserable out Merlin’s bubble of thrumming anticipation didn’t temper itself at all. Not as they rode through the morning, not after a brief stop to tend to their needs, not after another long afternoon in the saddle, and not when they finally stopped for good when it was too dark to be practical to continue. They were not pushing the horses, and they had another day of riding to go, and he doubted he’d feel differently about it tomorrow. He stood on the edge of a cliff, but had no fear - he could fly after all.

He’s wrapped up in a thick cloak he has inherited from Arthur, now too narrow in the shoulders for the prince, and with his new gloves he barely feels the cold. They have spoken and jested all day long, but they haven’t named aloud the druids or where they go - Arthur content for once to follow. Relieved to be out of the castle, moving towards a goal. In all truth the druids are not far from Camelot, it is the winding path around and through the low mountains as they approach the Ridge of Ascetir that stretches the journey and hides them so well.

They have pitched a wool tent that is heavy with lanolin, but the night is as clear a one as Merlin has ever seen, no clouds or rain. The dark sky feels overburdened with stars, a large slash of them cutting through the rich blue, glittering and splendid. They sit side by side and let the fire burn itself out to watch them, the tent behind them empty for now. They’ve set up along the edge of some woodlands, and a spattering of primrose and celandine only just beginning to bud spread out around them. He spots mistletoe weaving through the branches of a tree, and wonders if it is the work of the druids. Protection. Nothing evil will happen to them tonight.

The cold air and the last bit of campfire smoke tickle his nose, and he cups his hands over his cheeks to warm them. He’s growing his hair out, and it curls over the tips of his ears but the protection it offers is meagre. Arthur lets out a great breath like a puff of smoke from a dragon, watching it fog in the chill air. He turns and smiles at Merlin with his cheeks ruddy from the wind and cold, and Merlin knows his ears must be even worse. Merlin puffs his own breath out back at him.

If they are to get an early start they must sleep, but Merlin doesn’t want this peace to end. It’s a strange sort of longing that he feels now - so eager to tell Arthur the truth, but at the same time he wishes he could linger in this moment forever. He has turned these thoughts over in his mind so often that they have become nothing more than a rock in a river - tossed about until it smoothes away to vanishing. He feels dual natured and fickle, wishing to have it all and every way. To see all his paths spread out before him and walk each one.

Because whatever they learn tomorrow the both of them will be changed. In truth, they will be changed tomorrow even if they wake up and do nothing other than stare at the sky until night comes again. Spring turns to summer turns to autumn turns to winter, changing eternally, inescapable. Yet the seasons always find the balance to thrive.

 _It does come back to balance, doesn’t it?_ It makes him feel a little ill and giddy at the same time.

He takes his gaze off of Arthur and back to the mistletoe, winding through the branches of the tree, shining in the silver starlight. It trembles in the breeze, but not a single leaf falls.

Nothing evil will happen here tonight.

“I need to tell you something,” he finds himself saying, unbidden. “I have wanted to tell you for a long time. But I wasn’t going to - not until after you talked to the druids, and now I fear I’ve waited too long already.”

Arthur turns to him, looking serious and beautiful, and heartbreakingly trusting. The last embers of the fire send up sparks and illuminate him, and Merlin tries to commit him to memory, just in case. His hair, the curve of his jaw, the shape of his frowning mouth. But the firelight can’t illuminate the things about Arthur that Merlin finds most dear, most worthy of remembering.

“What is it? Merlin, you’re crying.” Arthur reaches out to wipe his cheek, and, oh, yes, he is crying a bit. He hadn’t noticed.

“I’ll take you to them, no matter what else. I know it’s important. I’ll stay with you as long as you’ll have me, until I die. Promise me you believe me?” Somehow his voice is even and strong.

“Of course I do, Merlin-” Arthur sits straighter in alarm.

“I have magic,” and he doesn’t take his eyes off of Arthur as his face twists, “I-I always have. I’ve tried to do good with it. You’re my friend,” he finds himself saying inanely. He had practiced this so many times in his mind, but all his grand speeches have abandoned him, spun away into nether. “My best friend, and I love you. And I want to stop hiding who I am from you, I want you to know me.”

Arthur has pulled his hand away, now fists both clenched at either side of him, and he tilts his head up as though to look at the stars, but his eyes are shut tight and his soft breathing has changed to something harsher. Merlin wants to reach out to him but doesn’t dare.

“I don’t understand,” his voice is wet and rough. “You’re lying, why would you lie about this?”

“I’m not though, Arthur, please. I swear it,” he begs.

“No, you must be. I would know if you had magic, I _do_ know you, and you have not been lying to me all this time. I have trusted you with every treasonous doubt I’ve had and you-” he chokes off whatever he was going to say. “ _Why_?”

“I’ll answer you, anything I can, no more secrets. Just ask me.”

Arthur scrubs his shaking hands roughly down his face, eyes bright and wild. “I should be asking you why you came to Camelot, what possible motivation you have - but all I can think of is what a fool I am! I thought myself to be so very clever you know. I suspected that someone had magic - too much luck, too often. I thought it was Lancelot.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “The Griffin, and then the druid boy. It never even entered my mind that it was you. I never thought you _could_ keep a secret from me, not about anything. I thought we had an understanding of one another.”

“We do! I was just afraid,” Merlin confesses, rubbing at his own wet cheeks.

Arthur is staring at him blankly wounded, “Of me,” Arthur’s voice has lost any heat it had all at once, defeated, “of course you must be. Did you truly think I could ever cut you down? Gods. How bitterly you must have hated serving me. Have you been afraid of me all this time?”

“ _No!_ ” Merlin cuts him off, unwilling to let this thought persist for an instant longer, “Never! Never. I was afraid that you would hate me, or send me away. And I wanted to stay, with you, with everyone. Or that things would change, and I just… wanted to stay as we were.” He doesn’t know what to say to make Arthur see how deeply he means it.

Arthur rises to his feet, only to turn and kneel in front of Merlin. The prince cups the back of Merlin’s head with both hands and drags him close, shakes him lightly, looks into his eyes. “I would give you one last chance. Swear to me that this is the lie. Here and now, and I will never speak of this again. We can sleep, and in the morning it will be as though it was never said. It can stay as it was.”

To stay or move forward, on his word. Merlin holds his gaze, and gently takes Arthur’s wrists in his hands, their fogged breath mingles together between them in the cold air, hovering. Merlin closes the distance between them and rests his brow against Arthur’s as he vows, “You know now, and I will not lie to you again.”

“Then you will tell me everything,” Arthur insists, pulling away a bare inch. “All that you have done, all that you can do.” He swallows, “How many lies have you told me?”

“Either countless or one,” Merlin says, “too many little lies to hold up the one big lie. Not about anything else though. I know it doesn’t matter for much now, but I promise you.”

Arthur exhales, sitting back on his heels. His hands leave Merlin and he misses the warmth. “If you truly didn’t fear me then why didn’t you tell me? When I _asked_ you about magic, I swore no harm would come to you - why not then?”

“I-” Merlin struggles to clarify, “I don’t even know how to explain. I thought about it. So much. I was doing magic from my cradle, and I’ve been told ever since never to tell anyone. How dangerous it would be, before I even understood what danger was. You repeat it enough until it is just something that… lives in you every day. You are a host to it until the fear is a part of you, and you forget how to be anything else, how to think any other way. I’ve never _told_ anyone.”

“No one else knows?” Arthur’s voice is disbelieving.

“I’ve been discovered,” Merlin admits easily, “Lancelot, with the Griffin. He swore to keep it a secret, to protect me. Gaius, of course. Morgana.”

“ _Morgana_ ,” Arthur complains, as Merlin knew he would. He can’t stop a tiny smile at his outrage. Too competitive by half.

“She found me out right away, actually. Those flowers I brought her when her nightmares were so awful - I grew those with magic. They never wilted, that’s how she figured it out.”

“Show me,” Arthur demands.

“What, the flowers? Now?”

“Yes, show me.”

It feels eminently strange to take his glove off, reach over, and pull some flowers up from the earth. To do magic so openly in front of Arthur, who has been told but still has never seen it for himself. They spring to life more easily than ever though. Even in the dark they are a vivid and victorious red - and completely out of season, showing off. Arthur takes off one of his gloves as well, brushes the tip of his finger across one of the petals. A tiny green tendrel unfurls and reaches for him, leaving Merlin feeling naked and exposed.

“So it is true then,” he says eventually.

“Yes,” Merlin says softly.

“Peaceful magic, you said. Is that what you do?”

“I try to,” he says, “if something magical is threatening people, sometimes I’ve had to stop it. That’s not always peaceful.”

“The Griffin, of course. And others. You’ll tell me. All of it.”

And so Merlin does. The things Arthur knows one story of and the things he knows nothing of. Until his voice grows hoarse, and the stars move steadily across the sky, and the fire has long burned out.

After a long stretch of silence Arthur speaks again, nudges him.

“Show me something more.”

Every spell Merlin has ever learned slips out of his mind in a rush - he doesn’t want to do the same little tricks that had delighted Morgana or Lancelot. He wants to show Arthur something that is so beautiful it will soothe his mind, or something grand and splendid and impressive. Something more.

 _A gift fit for a king_ , he thinks.

If only he could pull some metal from the air, make a crown to humble Uther’s own, or a golden armor that would turn aside any sword. He bites his lip, closes his eyes and reaches out with his magic, hoping for inspiration to find him. At first, nothing, but then there is a stirring in him that resonates with the earth, deep below the ashes of their fire. _For the King,_ it seems to say, _for the King._ He pulls at it, helping it along.

He feels Arthur inhale sharply next to him, and by the time he opens his eyes a rowan tree has nearly grown to full, looking for all the world as though it has always been there save for some last stretching growth. The stars are caught in its branches along with the red berries, and it looks shining and beautiful - although this is not quite what Merlin had in mind. Yet there _is_ something more.

“Missed your calling as a gardener? Is that all you can do, Merlin?” Arthur teases him weakly. It’s not a good joke, but it is as close to lighthearted as he’s sounded all night, and he gets up to have a look at the tree.

Merlin’s head is ringing like a bell, he can’t seem to answer. He goes to Arthur’s side and stands up on his tiptoes to look up into the branches as far as he can.

“I think you should eat some of the berries,” Merlin finds himself saying, uncertain. “I think they’re for you.”

“What? Aren’t rowan berries no good, is this some sort of a game?”

“They’re just bitter, they won’t hurt you to have a couple. It’s not a game, I think they’re a gift.”

“From you?”

Merlin shrugs and looks around, “I think so?”

“So what I’m hearing is that you’re just as hopeless as magic as you are at everything else?” Arthur is giving him a tired smile, and Merlin has never been so happy to be called hopeless.

“Prat,” he says, spilling over with undeniable fondness.

“What are they supposed to do?”

“I’m… not totally sure,” Merlin admits, “but nothing bad. I wanted to give you something nice, but I couldn’t think of what.”

Arthur looks at him like he needs to take his measure, weighing him. “If these should kill me, I will be very cross.” He says, very deadpan. He takes a small palmful of berries, and eats them in one go.

“They won’t kill you,” Merlin isn’t quite ready to hear that joke yet, “it’s a good tree.” He pats it reassuringly.

Arthur has his face screwed up tight from the bitterness, and glares as he gets his waterskin and drinks deeply. “Are you sure you aren’t just playing with me? Ugh. Eating _magic_ berries _you_ grew, I deserve whatever I get,” he complains.

Merlin can’t help himself at that, he throws his arms around Arthur and presses his face into his neck. Instead of pushing him away Arthur merely clings back tighter, the waterskin hitting the ground at their feet.

“Thank you,” Merlin mutters into his cloak, muffled and weepy again.

“Come on now, none of this,” Arthur pushes his hand through Merlin’s hair, “haven’t you cried enough yet?”

Merlin thwaps him. “Aren’t you angry at me? Won’t you just yell at me or hit me or something?” He can’t stop himself from asking.

“I’m so angry that I’ve circled it. I'll probably be angry tomorrow. I'm so angry I could throw you headlong off this mountain, but it would do me no good, I’d just go get you up again.” He sighs and it ruffles through Merlin’s hair. “It’s not the magic. Well a little. But not so much. I have come to terms with the fact that I do not know enough about magic to judge it all evil.”

“It’s the lies,” Merlin finishes for him, feels newly ashamed.

Arthur pulls him back to make him meet his eyes. “I understand why. I do. I should not even _be_ angry about keeping secrets from me, knowing you were protecting your life. But I am anyway. Whether it is fair or not.” He shakes his head. “And here, a confession for a confession.” Arthur clears his throat, continuing with false confidence. “I don’t want to become the sort of man who is violent when he’s angry. My father should not have put hand to Morgana, and I swear will not put hands to you. I don’t want to be a ruler whose people are frightened of him. If you, who knows me best - if you couldn’t trust me, what sort of man am I?”

“I’ll tell you until you believe me, but I am not afraid of you.” Merlin doesn’t think so, but he has to ask, “You aren’t afraid of _me_ , right?”

Arthur’s chest heaves against him as he restrains his sudden scoffing laughter. “No, Merlin, I’m not afraid of you.”

“I’m a terrifying warlock, you know,” Merlin reminds him, sniffling his nose.

Arthur casts a meaningful look to the flowers that he grew, to the sparkling rowan tree whose greatest crime was having bitter berries.

“Yes, terrifying,” he politely agrees.

***

When Merlin wakes up in the tent the next morning he is surprised he slept at all. Arthur is awake already, looking at him, blue eyes red rimmed with tiredness. It’s gustier than it was last night, and sunlight filters through the tent as it moves in the wind. It’s cold. Even on the blankets with both cloaks spread over the top of them it’s cold.

Merlin doesn’t blink as he blows out a breath of air and whispers a spell to warm them, a little bubble of protection. Arthur’s face doesn’t change at all. So it did happen then, it wasn’t a dream.

“Next time you need help you won’t go to Lancelot or Morgana, you’ll come to me.” Arthur says possessively, like it is a foregone conclusion, used to getting his own way. “No more secrets.”

“No more secrets,” Merlin promises, sleepy. “Were you stewing over the Morgana thing all night?”

“We aren’t going to the druids just yet, they can wait one more day,” Arthur doesn’t answer him, which means he was.

“What are we doing instead?”

“You’re showing me more magic, and we’ll figure out what you can do.”

“I already told you what I can do,” Merlin complains by rote. He’ll go over it again and again though if Arthur asks, and they both know it.

“Can you grow wheat as well as flowers? Crops? Do they rot or do they stay fresh like the flowers did?”

“I, well, I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

Merlin recognizes this face, he has seen it before drills with the knights many mornings. This is the Arthur face of determination and challenge, of finding the limits of a man and pushing past them. Oh, oh no.

“I do not go into battle side by side with a man without knowing what he can do - in this case _you_ don’t even know what you can do.” He sounds very pompous.

“We’re not going into battle, Arthur!” Merlin protests.

“Aren’t we?” He counters, “Can you use it in a fight at all? Can you make a shield? Change the course of an arrow? That would be a good one.”

Merlin can’t help but be amused, even as he knows his future is looking bruised and tested. “I don’t know Arthur, I haven’t tried that either.”

“Well why not? We only have so much time away from the castle, we’ll have to make a list.”

‘ _A list_ ’ Merlin mouths, as Arthur continues.

“You said you ruined one of Gaius’s cauldrons, could you do it on purpose? To a man’s sword, his armor?”

“I don’t _know_ Arthur, I haven’t tried that either!” Merlin hides his head under the cloaks, but Arthur just pulls them back, unrelenting. Is this how it feels when Merlin wakes him up in the mornings? It’s terrible.

“I do remember what you said about Cenred, Merlin,” he promises. “I would never put you to poor use. To make you fight. But you need to be able to defend yourself.”

Merlin blinks up at him. It had never occurred to him that he could one day openly fight at Arthur’s side. He would though. “I would though,” he says aloud, feeling very slow this morning indeed. “I would fight with you, serve you, for as long as you’d have me. I'll tell you again until you believe me.”

Arthur coughs lightly, a bit overcome and not willing to show it.

“Well that’s alright then,” he finally says, and even with his tired eyes his face seems brighter than Merlin could have hoped for.

“Can we at least eat first?” Merlin begs, closing his eyes.

“Yes, you should keep your strength up,” Arthur agrees, “it will be a long day. There is a lot of ground to cover, much to learn,” and when he says it like that it doesn’t sound so dreadful. Merlin opens one eye and smiles up at him, feeling light as air.

One path of many lays in front of him, and it may be that he never gets to set foot on any others. But he will be walking it with good company.


	11. Arthur Covets Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finally gets some attention/Arthur interlude

Arthur wakes when he hears rustling and whispers outside of the tent. His grip tightens on his sword hilt where it has been the night through before releasing it and closing his eyes for just a moment more. It isn’t cold, even as the chill has deepened as they went up the ridge - it hasn’t been cold because Merlin doesn’t wish it to be cold. Because Merlin has magic, and uses it for things like making sure the prince of Camelot sleeps warm. Idiot.

Merlin slumbers on undisturbed, face half covered by Arthur’s softest fur lined cloak, the shameless thief. Arthur lets his eyes linger on the pink shell of one of his ridiculous ears, the sweep of his dark lashes against his sharp cheek. Merlin should really be eating more, he’s skin and bones. His hair is getting longer, and has begun to curl. He had not known that about Merlin - that his hair curled. He hadn’t known.

“Your admirers are here,” he prods the warlock in the ribs. He can’t quite bring himself to shout Merlin awake, even though he sorely deserves it for all the times that Arthur has suffered through it. It has been hard to summon much depth of emotion lately, feeling too brittle by half, and paper thin.

He had meant it, what he said to Merlin. He doesn’t want to be the sort of man who lashes out in his anger, and he has done his utmost to keep that vow he made to himself. Morgana’s betrayed face and fearful eyes under his father’s hand still haunt him. He’d never seen her so frightened of anything before, and he hoped to never see it again. The thought of seeing Merlin look at him like that. Unbearable. No. Merlin was under his protection, and he had made himself vulnerable to Arthur out of trust - and Arthur could not spit on that gift. Instead he had held his own anger. It had smoldered and been smothered until it died, unfed, and left a numbness in its wake that was unusual for him. Lost.

Every morning after Merlin’s confession Arthur had been the first one to wake, finding sleep hard to hold. So he has seen the emotions play out on Merlin’s face each time his eyes open to a new morning. The slow blink to wakefulness, seeing Arthur, realising he knew, realising he was still here - _they_ were still here. Together. The slow spread of his smile and the happy flush making his cheeks pink. Arthur couldn’t help but feel a swell of affection in return, and it was that which carried him for the rest of the day.

“Come on, wake up. Or I’ll let them in,” he threatens. Merlin peeks at him to judge his sincerity. The sorcerer tries to look stern, but just like every other morning he can’t stop beaming. Arthur lets his heart be soothed, feeling dependant and foolish and utterly unable to help himself.

“I’m awake,” Merlin swears, sitting up. Half of his hair seems to be standing up in an impressive cowlick and he looks a little deranged. “I’m awake,” he repeats, louder, for the tiny shadows hovering outside their tent.

They scatter, caught out and giggling. There are not many druid children, but they all seem to love Merlin. Arthur supposes he understands.

Here with the druids Merlin casts magic like he’s breathing. Goes to show how quickly the mind adjusts, too, Arthur has stopped flinching two days in.

It’s nothing to Merlin to show the children grand displays of animals and stories made of lights, or to make them lighter than air, their tiny feet kicking as they swim through the trees. He can grow crops as it turns out - or berries, at least. He’s still getting the hang of it. One memorable attempt had blackberries that tasted of Arthur’s favorite roast that the cook only prepared for the midwinter feast. It was fairly disconcerting, even if he closed his eyes though, and Merlin seemed so disappointed he ended up eating far too many anyway. He has repaired things for the nomadic people, mended cloth and wagons, as well as nails and other tasks usually impossible without a forge. The respect they all have for Merlin bleeds through their every interaction. Emrys, they call him, reverent. He still doesn’t know what that means, and no one had given him a satisfactory answer.

If Arthur had a single shred of decency in him he would leave Merlin behind here, to be happy and free.

But Arthur is selfish.

“We have to go today,” he says quietly, instead.

Merlin makes a fond noise in agreement around a yawn, stretching like a cat. Arthur has not learned all that he can from Iseldir, but another year of time wouldn’t change that, and Camelot will be missing him soon. They must go.

Arthur has tried to listen with honesty and wisdom. To judge Iseldir’s words for himself by what he has seen of the world. It would do him no good to leap straight from trusting his father unquestioned into taking the word of the druids as fact in exchange.

But some things are undeniable.

Magic is neither solely good nor evil, and it is all of Camelot who will bear the suffering for the actions of his father. The purge has spilled over into every corner of the kingdom, the ripples still rolling through it to this day. The suffering of their trade agreements with other kingdoms who refuse to bow to Uther’s whims on magic, the lack of fostering nobles, knights, alliances dwindling. Their wealth, their armies, still impressive - but less so every year. Declining still. If Arthur were to return to Camelot tomorrow and find himself on the throne and proclaim magic legal the land itself may begin to right itself, or it may not, time would tell. But it would not change that they are surrounded by kingdoms that have gained strength while Camelot has lost it. Cenred, Bayard, Caerleon.

Countless threats loom dark on the horizon, and he is no fool. He had known this much long before they ever came to the druids. What he had learned from them was that none of it need have happened at all. That his father’s vendetta on magic was pointless, that magic does not damn the soul. That innocent people, his people, had been slaughtered in their homes for no just cause. That King Uther, his father _,_ may have doomed the kingdom to being conquered and divided, for war to return far bloodier even than the purge, to take ever more lives.

What Arthur has not been able to learn is _why_ it happened at all. What could possibly be worth the cost? If the druids know they keep their silence well.

And so Arthur lets himself look at Merlin a little longer than he should in the morning, to find a little thread of hope hidden in the curl of his smile. He knows he hasn’t done anything to deserve Merlin’s faith in him, but he will try. He will strive to be worthy of it every day.

Outside the tent the camp is only just stirring. Dawn is parting the mists, and it makes the ground glow gold and green. Merlin is already helping with chores, because of course he is, and the small gaggle of children follow behind him getting in the way more than anything else. Mordred is one of the older ones, and Arthur watches him try and run herd on the smaller children to minimal success.

The sight chases away some of his melancholy. They are still here, after all, still living, strong and faithful despite having endured so much. To give into despair would be an insult to them.

Arthur can do no less than they.

***

“Do you want to visit your mother?” Arthur finds himself asking as they descend from the druid camp. Merlin whirls to look at him, eyes wide.

“Really?” He asks, stopping.

“No, just joking,” Arthur teases him flatly, feeling somewhat awful for the half a second that Merlin seems to think he’s serious. “Right now we’re very near Ealdor, and it won’t take much longer to return to Camelot from the south rather than going through the ridge again,” Arthur finds himself over explaining, the look of naked gratitude on Merlin’s face making him feel the need to be dismissive.

“That would be amazing! I haven’t seen her in so long,” Merlin exclaims happily. “Ealdor isn’t much, but I’ll show you where I knocked down that tree I told you about. Well, I guess that’s not very exciting. And you can meet my mum, and Will-!”

“You want me to come with you?” Arthur doesn’t know why he is surprised, but he is.

“Yes?” Merlin sounds uncertain, “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Well, it’s in Essetir, and it’s _your_ mother, I don’t know! I thought you’d fly ahead and catch up after.” Arthur still finds it strange to think that Merlin can turn into a bird, but it cannot be denied that it’s useful for getting around.

“Don’t you _want_ to meet my mum?” Merlin manages to sound both deeply hurt and deeply outraged, which is how Arthur is roped into visiting his manservant's mother. He doubts many other princes have similar problems.

“I don’t see how I won’t be an imposition, Merlin,” Arthur presses him as they ride through the rocky approach to Ealdor.

“My mum will love you,” Merlin insists, “as long as you can mind your manners,” he finishes under his breath. _Hah_ , as if it’s _Arthur’s_ manners in question here.

“We won’t be able to stay, not even for a night,” Arthur cautions him as they approach the small village, “I really do have to go back, and I can’t be seen traipsing around Cenred’s lands without so much as a by your leave.”

“I understand,” Merlin nods furiously.

“Are you _quite_ sure you really need my company for this?” Arthur questions again out of the side of his mouth, hood up. They walk through the village and up to a small stone cottage, the thatch roof in need of some repair.

“ _Yes_ ,” Merlin insists, before shouting, “Mum!”

“Merlin?” A cry comes from inside before a woman appears from inside, setting down a basket with shaking hands. “My darling boy!” She’s shorter than Merlin by a great deal, but has the same blue eyes and curling dark hair. Arthur looks away as they embrace, feeling awkward and unnecessary. “My baby bird,” she whispers roughly, and he pretends not to hear it.

“Mum, stop it!” Merlin is clearly delighted however, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Oh, come in, Cariad, you’re so thin!”

“Mum, wait look, this is Arthur,” Merlin turns so they both face him, Hunith hadn’t even noticed him in her excitement.

“My lady,” Arthur gives a short bow, making Merlin smile that pleased smile of his. Hunith looks a little bewildered. He knew it was bad form for him to just show up, but of all people she must understand how difficult it is to say no to Merlin.

“Prince Arthur?” She says quietly, looking up at her son.

“Just Arthur, please,” he interjects.

“Yes, mum, just Arthur,” Merlin agrees. “We’ve come for a visit, it was Arthur’s idea!”

“Then I owe you my thanks, just Arthur,” and then those same shining blue eyes that he is so familiar with are on him. At least he knows that Merlin came by them honestly. “Won’t you come in and have a rest and a bite to eat?”

“Be nice,” Merlin whispers in his ear as they follow her into her home. Arthur learns why when they are served their meal. A welcoming hostess, and a kind and educated woman to be sure -she must have been to have raised Merlin - but a cook she was not.

It is a strange thing for him to feel like the least important person in a room, but not an unwelcome one. While Hunith clearly has a bit more respect for royalty than her son does, she only has eyes for Merlin, laughing and gasping in all the right places as he regales her with happy tales of Camelot. He doesn’t mention his magic, and neither does Arthur.

“I want to see if I can find Will before we have to leave, is that alright?” Merlin looks between the two of them. “Arthur doesn’t want to be seen, because, well, you know,” he waves his hand around his head in a gesture that might mean ‘crown’ or might mean ‘because he’s crazy’. “Can you watch him for a little bit?”

“I don’t need a _minder_ , Merlin,” Arthur chides him. Truth be told he’s not sure he wants to be left to deal with Hunith alone. For some reason he can’t divine he feels the need to impress her, but worries that much like Merlin the usual things that impress people will not quite pass muster. He didn’t want to leave Merlin behind with the druids, and he doesn’t want to leave Merlin behind here. Certainly Hunith will be able to tell all of his selfish sins just from looking at him.

“I’m sure the two of us put together can manage without you for a bit, Cariad.”

With that Merlin gives his mother another hug, mouthing ‘ _be nice_ ’ at Arthur over her shoulder. ‘ _I’m always nice,’_ Arthur mouths back at him, offended. Merlin rolls his eyes at him, and is gone, leaving him behind.

He swallows. He’s met mothers before, of course. Many women were mothers - he wasn’t sure why this felt so different.

“Thank you,” Hunith says gently, “for bringing him home to me.”

“I’m only sorry that I kept him away so long,” he finds himself apologizing. “He speaks of you often, and fondly.”

“I am very lucky to have him,” she agrees, “he’s a good son. I know he is outspoken, I hope he doesn’t cause you too much trouble.” She smiles at him conspiratorially. “I know better than to hope he causes no trouble at all.”

“He’s worth the trouble,” he answers far more honestly than he intended. He can’t bring himself to lie.

“Is he so good at his job as that?”

The amount of disbelief in her voice makes him laugh more heartily than he has in days, “No, that’s not it! I can’t say he’s a particularly good servant, but he’s… something.” He finishes lamely, biting the inside of his cheek.

“He is that,” she says knowingly. “I’m glad that he has such a good friend in Camelot, and that you look out for him so well.” He tries to deny it feebly, but she isn’t having it. “I know him, I can tell.”

“He’s well liked by the people of Camelot,” a half answer, “he seems to know everyone in the city already, and is friends with half of them.” _But I’m his best friend_ , the petty child in him says, _he said so_. Still competitive and possessive, as greedy for attention as he was when he was only five with no friends instead of twenty one.

“Of course,” Hunith agrees, docile. Arthur wonders if the ability to see straight through him is genetic. But then, he is never quite so obvious as he is when it has to do with Merlin. Arthur can only be thankful that Merlin is far more oblivious than his insightful mother seems to be.

“Is there anything I can help you with,” Arthur redirects the conversation.

“I can’t have a guest doing chores, let alone a prince,” she shoos him back to sitting when he rises.

“Please,” he insists, trying not to show how eager he is to move from this conversation. “It would be my pleasure.”

Which is how Merlin finds them when he returns, a man behind him who must be Will. With Arthur trailing behind Hunith, who is patiently walking him through some of her household chores, as he more gets in the way than anything else. Just as bad as the druid children. He sighs.

At least Will and Merlin had been amused.

***

“Isn’t she great?” Merlin presses him once they are saddled again and making their way past the border. Hunith had given them both tight hugs as they left, demanding to see them sooner next time, and for longer. Arthur had felt another measure of weight fall off of his shoulders during that hug. His burdens and heavy thoughts were the same as they were this morning, but he was strangely bolstered by the two of them, happy and included. He had hoped to please Merlin with his impulsive idea, but perhaps he was the one with the greatest benefit today.

“Yes, I don’t know how she managed to turn out such a layabout of a son,” Arthur teases him.

“Oi,” Merlin objects without heat.

They have to press further before they can stop for the night, but they are both weary from the long day. It’s a peaceful enough silence, but Arthur can’t help himself.

“Why didn’t you mention that I knew about your magic?”

“Oh,” Merlin startles, “well. She was always so worried about it. That I’d get caught, or taken, or killed.”

“Wouldn’t she be relieved to know that I’d protect you?” And he would. He’d told Merlin as much - he could only hope that the other man believed him.

“Maybe so. We only had a few hours though. I just wanted it to be nice I guess. I didn’t want to scare her. I think I wasn’t a very easy son.”

“She loves you,” Arthur says with confidence, “I could tell. You couldn’t have been _too_ terrible.”

Merlin laughs at him. “ _You_ thought the druid children were a handful, imagine a toddler that can light fires with their mind and pull all the furniture around the room. I am grateful I had a mother as kind and as forgiving as her. And _patient_ ,” he stresses.

That does sound pretty terrible, actually. He should have shaken Hunith’s hand before they left, asked for some advice.

They have ridden far further than is practical to make up for their time in Ealdor, but they have to stop eventually. As they set up camp and settle next to each other it occurs to Arthur that he will miss this. It’s been just _awful_ , really, and he has no idea what to do when they arrive back in Camelot. He’s supposed to become king eventually, and he is floundering with fear and indecision and doubt- he has more knowledge than when he left but no fewer questions. But there are things he will miss.

Merlin’s has been the first face he has seen every morning for nearly two years now. It only strikes him now that for the past week his own face had been the first thing that _Merlin_ saw upon waking. Of course it had, it seems mad to only notice now. But once they are home Merlin will have a life outside of Arthur again, and see dozens of people before greeting him, and he feels every inch the petty five year old once more.

“Show me something,” Arthur insists suddenly, Merlin half asleep.

“Mph, what?”

“Some magic, before we go back to Camelot. Show me something again.” _Something of you that no one else has,_ he doesn’t say.

Merlin flops onto his side to face Arthur, only a hand-breadth away from him in the tent. He’s tired, but obliges. His eyes are shut when he casts, and Arthur doesn’t have to look away when he sees gold shining through his sweep of dark lashes that had captivated him this morning. A finer gold than anything in Camelot’s treasury, brilliant as sunshine or dragon’s fire. Perhaps there really is dragon’s blood in him like the stories of his ancestors say, for Arthur covets this gold now. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of Merlin’s face to even see what magic he had done. He really is an obvious fool.

A butterfly lands between them and flutters its wings. A hollyblue, like before. It blocks his view, and he huffs at it. A few more of them softly flit around the tent, little bits of golden light swimming dreamily between them. Merlin’s breathing has evened out, sleeping already, and one of the butterflies turns into smoke before reforming into a cheerful looking fish, swimming in circles above them.

Arthur turns his head back to blow a stream of air on the butterfly that still rests between them, and it rises into the air again. The little flecks of golden stars gather around it and swell to form a lake of light, and the fish darts through it, sending splashes of gold through the air. The second butterfly dissolves into a rich blue smoke much like the first, and begins to take a new form - now a woman, rising from the lake. Bearing a sword, somehow familiar to him. He swears he can hear her calling out to him.

His eyes are getting heavy.

What strange dreams Merlin has. He'll try and remember to ask him about them in the morning. Tomorrow, Camelot awaits.


	12. Merlin Fights Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if anyone gets this alert or whatever twice! I am new to posting, it's my first fic, and I basically have no idea what I'm doing on this very easy to use website and messed it up. I'm sorry if this hits some of you a couple of times - thanks so much for understanding!

When they return to Camelot, it is in chaos.

Gwen is inconsolable. Her father is dead, and Morgana is in the dungeons until she repents to Uther, which she has sworn never to do.

For once the gossip of the castle was useful, the entire affair had spilled out so that even the lower town knew the king’s ward was imprisoned. She had stood in front of the court, they said, and called him a madman. That the blacksmith had been an innocent and loyal man, a victim - and that Uther was no king, only a murderer. She had spat at his feet.

Not even Arthur is permitted to see her.

Her food and water are brought by the guards twice a day, no servant has laid eyes on her since the bars had been shut. Certainly not Gwen, and not Merlin when he tries either. Rumor says that Uther has killed her already.

Merlin will find out the truth tonight though. He has never been so grateful that he has learned to be a mouse.

***

Arthur will be the one to take him to the entrance to the dungeons - even if he cannot enter the guards will not dare to ignore him. His hands are very big and warm when he picks Merlin up, and it helps calm his racing heart. If he should only discover Morgana’s cold body he doesn’t know what he will do. How he could carry that news to Gwen, to Arthur. He hopes desperately that rumor is a false one.

From Uther’s deep rage it might be true. Merlin has not been privy to whatever conversations Arthur and his father have had, but the prince’s face tells him a story whether he means it to or not.

He scurries down the corridor, thankful the guards are occupied. Empty cell after empty cell, until finally he sees her. Her fine dress is wet, and she looks filthy and tired, but she is alive. He’s through the bars and at her side before he even realizes he’s moved.

“ _Morgana,”_ he whispers, shushing her as she starts at his sudden appearance. “Morgana,” he says again, brokenhearted. Her face is pale, a purple bruise on her cheek, but it is the dullness in her eyes that shakes him most. They still light up when she sees him, though.

“Merlin!” She cries quietly. He throws his arms around her, the same warming spell he’d been using all night in the tent flowing from him before he can think twice. She’s freezing, her wet dress making her shiver in the frigid dungeons.

“Are you alright?” He feels cruel as soon as he asks it. Of course she isn’t alright. “I’m sorry, that’s stupid,” before she can even answer.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she hiccups. “Uther’s gone mad. More mad,” her voice is bitter. “I couldn’t stay silent, he’s a monster. He’s killed poor Gwen’s father. He committed no crime!”

“I know. I know.” There are no words of comfort he can offer her. “You’re so brave. Morgana, what’s he done to you?” He picks at the fabric of her dress, unsure if he should dry it for her, or if that will get her into further trouble.

“Has them douse me in water every time I become hysterical,” she scoffs.

“You’re lucky you haven’t turned blue!” He understands the urge to spit on Uther, and finds yet another wave of admiration for her. He needs to know. “Did you really spit on the king?”

She inclines her chin and gives him a triumphant smile, unbowed by her suffering. “I did,” she confirms. “I’m only sorry I didn’t do worse.”

Merlin cannot find it in him to disagree or to try and talk her down. He’s thought the same himself more than once.

“We should go,” he says instead. “Arthur is distracting the guards, I can get you out of here.”

“To where? I cannot just return to my chambers, Merlin. If I escape I cannot stay in Camelot. Is that what the plan is? To flee the kingdom?” She doesn’t particularly sound opposed.

“I hadn’t… really thought that far ahead,” Merlin admits, fiddling with his hands. “We were all so worried about you, and people are saying that Uther had you _killed._ We couldn’t just sit on out hands and wait and see.”

“Well I’m not dead, and I don’t think he means to kill me. Humiliate me, and put me back in my place.” He doesn’t know how well that is working - she seems far more angry than humiliated. But when she speaks next her voice is tentative. “Will you come back?”

“Come back? Morgana, I don’t understand. I don’t intend to leave you here.”

“You should go, just for now. Uther won’t kill me, but he’d kill Gwen, or anyone else he thought helped me escape. Especially if he suspects magic. And how else would I get out of here?” She’s right, of course. “Merlin. I’m so glad you came, but we need a plan. Arthur, was he - was he good? To you - about the magic? You’re alright?”

“Yes, I swear it, he didn’t even shout at me.” Merlin teases weakly and takes her hand.

“Will you tell him for me? That I have magic as well, that my dreams are not merely dreams? And Gwen? If they still wish to help me, maybe-maybe I _should_ leave Camelot. Maybe Gwen will come with, I fear she is in danger as well. Or maybe not, maybe it’s all foolishness.” She presses her free hand to her face. “Maybe, maybe, maybe. For all my dreams they give me nothing of value.”

“It’s _not_ foolishness. I can’t speak for Gwen or what he wishes are, but I know she would not rest if you just disappeared into the night out of the dungeons. She’d never accept it. Nor would I, or Arthur. I’ll tell them, if that is what you want. Anything, I promise.”

“Please,” she nods at him, decisive. “I’ll live with the outcome either way, but I’d have them know the truth. They would be risking much to help me.”

Merlin grips her hand tightly before letting it go. He presses it against the floor of the dungeon - he hasn’t grown anything without earth there first, but he wants to try. A few little sprouts of green start to form, reluctantly producing a mere handful of red strawberries. Hopefully they actually tasted like strawberries this time.

“It’s not much, here let me try again,” and he does, to slightly greater success, until she’s eaten all she’s able to. He pulls some water out of nothing for her, all he can give her for now. “Please keep your strength up, I’ll come back. I promise.” He gathers the little green remains so there will be no evidence, and finally can bring himself to look her in the eyes. “I don’t want to leave you here,” he admits.

“It won’t be for long.”

“You shouldn’t be the one comforting me right now,” he smiles weakly at her.

“ _Go,_ Merlin,” she pokes him on the collarbone, where the little bird that she embroidered for him sits, just as she had before the feast over a year ago now. “You’ll come back.” And once more, just like the last time she had said so, he is not sure which of them she is reassuring.

“I’ll come back,” he promises.

He reluctantly retraces his steps down the corridor, to past the guards and Arthur, who gives nothing away, not even a flicker of his eyes. Yet when Merlin has rounded the corner he barely has to wait at all for Arthur to scoop him up without breaking his stride. Merlin is small enough like this to be held in one hand, and through Arthur’s loosely held fingers he can see the castle walls as they head towards his chambers. He is set down gently on the rug before he takes his own form again in a blur that doesn’t even make Arthur blink.

“Well?” Arthur demands, his anxiousness making him even more impatient than usual.

“She’s alive, she’s fine - for now, at least,” he tries to reassure him. “I tried to get her to leave, but she insisted we have a plan first, that she was in no greater danger.”

“Of course she did,” he sighs, but his relief is clear. “She’s not wrong, though. To take action now with no next steps in place might damn her far more thoroughly.”

“I- uhm. Arthur, there is something more I need to tell you on her behalf,” Merlin has done this once before already, he is old hat at it. This should be easy. “Well, Morgana knows about my magic, as you know. She, uh-” He trails off.

Arthur blinks at him incredulously. “Merlin, get it out already.”

“She has magic? She wanted me to tell you. Her dreams are not only dreams, but, well, futures? Possible futures.”

Arthur sinks into his chair by the fire. “And who else has magic? The cook? The kennel boy?” He pushes his hands through his hair and tips his head back. The long line of his neck bobs as he swallows. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Merlin confirms.

“Alright, _Mer_ -lin, yes! It doesn’t change anything, now does it?” He swings up out of his chair to stand challenging in front of his servant. “It doesn’t matter if she has magic or not, she’s still Morgana, I know that full well by now. I do not have to learn lessons twice, no matter what you think. Camelot though, it will be dangerous for her now. More so. I don’t suppose she is willing to apologize to my father.”

“I don’t think she’s particularly sorry, no,” Merlin can’t help but scowl. She shouldn’t have to humble herself before Uther over this.

“No, I wouldn’t imagine she is. She won’t lie though? To get out of the dungeons without further harm coming to her?”

“I didn’t ask her,” Merlin shakes his head. “Do you think Uther would let her out if she did? Truly?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. When we spoke I tried to impress upon him that Morgana was temperamental, and grieving for Gwen. He’s always more willing to dismiss her outbursts if he thinks it’s just her,” Arthur waves a hand vaguely, “womanly nature. This time, however.” He trails off. “Perhaps not. She derided him in full view of the court. Called him unworthy.”

“What are we going to do?” Merlin twists his hands together. Arthur is quiet.

“I’ll try and persuade my father to let me see her. Maybe I can convince them both to let this go for now. I know she won’t be happy about it. If it comes to her being forced to leave it is better for her to walk out through the gates without my father after her blood, though, even if it means she lies for now to placate him. If she has to escape the dungeons, or if she is accused of witchcraft in doing so with your help-well. We need to be ready for any possibility.” They both know exactly how dangerous that would be. “You _will_ help her, won’t you. If it comes to that? To keep her safe.”

“Of course,” Merlin agrees immediately, no doubt in his mind. “Of course I would.”

“I would ask you not to reveal yourself. To be careful, and to protect yourself. Don’t risk your life needlessly. If you have to aid her so she lives… I want you to come back to me. If I have my way you will not have to do anything at all. But I have very little family in this world,” Arthur’s voice is carefully blank. “Morgana may not be mine by blood, but she is a sister to me nonetheless. Come, I would give you something.” He goes over to one of his locked chests, his sudden mood so odd that Merlin can’t help but follow.

“Arthur?”

When the lock clicks open he only stares inside the chest for a long moment, before gently taking one of the treasures from within. It is a disk, silver and heavy looking, with an engraving on it that Merlin cannot see.

“This is my mother’s sigil,” Arthur holds out, revealing a detailed embossing of a dove. The prince continues to hold it out, eyebrow raised until Merlin awkwardly takes it. “I want you to have it.”

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, “I can’t possibly take this though.” He holds it back out, but is refused.

“Just. Take it.”

Merlin holds it in his hands, runs a thumb over the dove. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees simply. “And it’s yours now.”

It is a rare occasion that Merlin is speechless. He has no gift he can give Arthur that can make measure to this. And worse, the niggling fear that rises in him - what is it that Arthur thinks will happen? He had asked him to help Morgana if he had to, does he intend to send Merlin away with her if he can’t reach a peace with his father? Not after he had finally told the truth, not after he had begged Arthur to stay. No, it couldn’t be. It didn’t seem fair.

“Why?” He finally manages to ask.

Arthur’s silence drags on a long while before he speaks again, “I want you to have it, that is reason enough.”

“I can’t take this if it means what I think it does. Do you think things will go so badly with the king?”

“I want you to have it,” Arthur insists. “If everything goes right and you are both safe in your beds tomorrow I would still want you to have it. I will not take it back until you wish to leave my side.”

“So, never?” Merlin holds the sigil between them, leaving it for Arthur to take. Instead he merely folds his own hands around Merlin’s, enclosing them around the sigil.

“I would keep you for as long as it pleases you.” If Arthur is a bit red, Merlin doesn’t mention it. It’s only fair, he thinks he might be a bit red too.

***

It is a measure of both Arthur’s trust in him and how direly he predicts this meeting will go that Merlin stands in the great hall with a bag full of illicit magical items and gold on his hip. He’s pretty sure if Arthur could have gotten away with giving him a full backpack and a pair of horses he would have, but that might have drawn a few eyes. And the hall is full of eyes, packed to the brim. As it is he could buy a castle of his own with this, and he tries not to show that he carries anything of value. Gwen is at his side, puffy from crying and silent, but unwilling to be left behind while Morgana is paraded around the court.

Morgana stands in front of the king and the nobility, shackled in iron, still in the same dress she was taken away in. She has the bearing of a queen even so. Whatever Arthur had said to the both of them had gotten them this far, but Uther will not be content until Morgana is brought to heel. Seeing the look on Morgana’s face, he begins to understand why Arthur thought she might need a backup plan. The disdain is plain as day on her proud face.

“Morgana,” Uther does not rise from his throne or offer her any more welcome than that. He is as impressive a figure as he ever is, still strong despite his age, sword at his side. His face might as well be carved from stone.

“King Uther,” she begins, “I humbly beg forgiveness for my words. They were rash with my grief.”

There is little noise in the hall other than the rustling of skirts and the shuffling of shoes.

“Is that all?” The king questions. “After Arthur swore you were repentant? Do you make a liar of him as well as your other crimes?”

“No, my king. Your son speaks the truth,” she bows her head. Perhaps to hide how she seethes, Merlin thinks, feeling his stomach start to tie in knots. “I regret my words. I should not have questioned your judgement.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, Morgana. Please, elaborate. You have had much time to think over your regrets.” Merlin thinks they look strangely alike in some ways, Morgana and Uther. The proud jut of the chin, the unwillingness to bend.

Morgana takes a deep breath in, “Magic is dangerous, and deserves no less than to see the full justice of the crown.”

“And the blacksmith? Is ignorance an excuse to defy the laws that have made Camelot safe?”

Beside him Gwen’s sharp hitch of breath as she is unable to stop a sob echos through the hall, but Uther’s eyes are unwavering. Morgana’s shoulders pull up at the sound of it, her back straightens impossibly further, and Merlin grabs onto Gwen’s hand. It’s cold and shaking, and she holds back so tightly her nails pinch his skin.

Arthur had known, he must have. He would have seen this coming, would have known that Morgana would never be able to hold her tongue. His magic heaves volatility under his skin, his only grace is that no one is sparing any thought towards him, every person in the hall is fixed on Morgana.

“Morgana,” the king’s voice is sharp, losing any patience he had rapidly.

“He did _nothing wrong_!” It seems to crack around the room, loud and clear. At her side Arthur merely closes his eyes for a moment, but doesn’t look surprised. His hand is on his sword, and Merlin watches him for any clue on what to do now.

“I have had enough. Your insolence will no longer be tolerated. Remove her to the dungeons until an appropriate punishment can be set.” The line of his mouth is tight, and there is no forgiveness left here. Morgana must know it as well, because she no longer seems to feel the need to hold back her true thoughts. Indeed, she might be pleased enough to have an audience to them.

“Murderer! Sick, twisted old man! You slaughter your own people!” She’s screaming as Arthur pulls her away, trying to talk her down, but she is not listening to him at all. “Kill me then, _kill me_ ,” she shrieks, “kill me for my magic, kill me or I’ll have your head myself!”

“What new treason is this?” Uther is standing now, his own hand on his sword in a mirror of Arthur. He walks towards them, drawing his blade.

“She is distressed, father, and unwell,” Arthur attempts to pull her away, but the king raises a hand to stop him.

“Take these irons off me and I’ll show you,” Morgana promises darkly.

“The penalty for sorcery is death, you claim it for yourself?!” The king’s face is scarlet, his naked blade drawn and raised to Morgana. Merlin steadies himself.

“ ** _YES_** _!”_

And as the blade comes down Arthur is raising his own sword to meet it, too slowly, trying to push his way between them, face horrified. Merlin could never in his life let that sword strike either of them, and so he reaches out with his magic sparking viciously and gives a great pull and push to Uther’s blade. _It’s just like one of Gaius’s cauldrons,_ he tells himself.

When it crashes down on Arthur’s shoulder it merely breaks upon him as if it were a wave on a great immovable cliff, shattering to the floor of the hall in a splash of black sand and smoke.

Arthur does not look over to him for even an instant, unwilling to give him away, not even when the screaming starts.

“We need to go,” he whispers furiously down to Gwen, “we need to get out of here, now!”

But the guards are already moving through the hall, even as Arthur is shouting, “She’s in irons, it couldn’t have been her, father, please!”

More swords are drawn, and Merlin cannot possibly shatter so many of them, and he feels utterly useless - if only he had more _time_.

And then with a great sizzling twist of his magic that makes him feel ill he does. Gwen, who he had been pulling behind him gives a great gasp, almost a scream, but everyone else is frozen in place. When he turns to look at her he can see his eyes blazing brightly like reflected firelight in her own gaze.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry but we really need to move, now!” He insists, unwilling to let go of her hand when he has no idea how long this will last or what will happen to her if he does. He drags her stumbling towards Morgana, whose face is frozen in a grimace between terror and hatred, tears wet and still on her cheeks. Arthur has his back to her, facing his father, and Merlin doesn’t dare touch him and implicate him in this magic use. He wishes he could see his face, but instead he takes his other hand and grabs Morgana’s wrist, hoping for the best.

She comes alive as if she had never been frozen at all, and Merlin has to fight to keep a grip on her as she wakes horrified and fighting.

“Morgana!” He raises his voice at her, his fingers are going numb, he doesn’t think he can keep this going for long. “We have to get out, now!” He’s already walking towards the door, but it’s harder with two people not helping him. “Now!” He bellows, and he’ll be sorry for it later, for shouting, but right now he just needs them to move.

Past the great hall the eerie silence continues. They pass a guard who is mid run towards the commotion, feet not even touching the ground. He’s not sure how far it continues, but he heads to the gates anyway. The flags are motionless in the stillness. Arthur had told him where to take Morgana if he had to, that he would take horses there himself. And Merlin can barely think at all, let alone think of a better plan than that.

The walk seems to be endless, and at some point he finds himself with his arms over Morgana and Gwen’s shoulders as they are now the ones dragging him forwards. Who made this city so big? He’d tell them to leave him behind, but he’s pretty sure it won’t work that way. His head lolls as the sky swims above him.

“Don’t go to sleep, Merlin,” Morgana pinches him meanly, and he doesn’t understand why he shouldn’t. They stop for some reason, Gwen is grabbing things from around the forge, and he feels like a ragdoll.

“Don’t go to sleep, Merlin, not yet,” Gwen’s steady voice is trembling a little, and Merlin watches a bird that hovers in the air above them unmoving. They walk further and further, until the sky turns into trees, and the horses are statues.

“You can rest now, Merlin, it’s alright.” Someone is petting their hand through his hair, and it feels lovely. He wishes it were Arthur though. He hears a weak, wet sounding giggle from above him.

He hopes Arthur figures out the candle. He left it for him, Merlin feebly thinks, while Arthur had arranged the horses that morning. Merlin had gone to Morgana’s rooms, and found the candle holder. In Arthur’s chambers he had stolen a hair off of his comb, and lit the little thing. He remembers grabbing the twig with it’s dried yellow leaf from Arthur’s secret shelf, and putting it by the candle, hoping that he’d understand. All the while wishing Arthur would never have to see it at all, because that meant that Merlin had gone away. Where were they going, anyway?

“Nowhere, yet,” the pale shape of Morgana tells him. “Merlin, thank you,” she says, her voice twisting up into the sky and turning into raindrops. “I’m sorry, I never meant for this to happen,” and oh, she’s crying.

He wants to console her, but he can’t quite keep his eyes open, and his arms are too heavy to lift. Gwen will take care of it, he’s sure. They said he could rest, so he does.


	13. Merlin Trusts

Merlin does not wake again for a week.

It is another one after that besides before he can stand without assistance. He doesn’t remember any of it, but Gwen had told him he had to be tied to his horse. That they took turns riding with him, keeping him upright as they avoided any road where they might be seen. He dreamed, he thinks. Terrifying ones where he hadn’t been able to stop the sword from striking Arthur down, Morgana following him into death, helpless and bloody at the feet of the king. He’s slowing them down. With him they are not even half as fast as they could have been. Not a quarter.

This may or may not be what Arthur intended, but Morgana has been leading them south to Nemeth. While she swears that Uther’s men would already be looking at the villages around the city for a party of their description, if they can pass into the port city of Gedref no knights of Camelot would be welcome to impose upon the citizens there for long. King Rodor held no love of Uther.

At the very least it would give them time to recuperate and supply themselves.

Gwen had been practical when they stopped at her father’s smithy - she had gathered tools enough to break Morgana’s shackles, and a plain dress and cloak. With Morgana’s beautiful long dark hair pinned up under a scarf they would draw no undue attention - if they were careful.

Still, his paranoia makes it feels as though every person they pass must be able to see straight through him, to know they are being hunted. He is too feeble to even manage a whisper of magic, and he can barely stay awake through a whole day.

The city is beautiful though, so much more so than he could have anticipated. A bright and welcome surprise after the dangerous road here. Built so that it nearly touches the water of the great sea, it climbs the hills, bursts of short scrubby trees scattered among the buildings casting shade. He had never thought that cities would _smell_ different of all things, but the air carries the crisp scent of salt inwards. He’s trying not to gape, but much like the first time he had laid eyes on Camelot he is not sure how well he manages it. It might not be as large or as fine as Camelot, but Merlin is not sure any city is.

They do find an inn with a stable on their own eventually, too afraid to ask for directions.

“Here,” Morgana says decisively. “I recognize it.”

There is only one way she would, he knows. He’d be more curious, but the thought of a hot meal and a bed have Merlin nearly salivating. A _bath_ even. His joints ache as though he is older than Gaius by a hundred years. He wonders if he has enough magic in him to try and heat water - it would be worth it.

“A room, please,” Gwen is the one to ask, “for the three of us.”

The innkeeper seems agreeable - until he sees Merlin listing weakly against Morgana. “He ill? We have other guests to consider, if you need a physician you’re in the wrong place.” Merlin tries to look healthier, but he’s not certain it’s working.

“Nothing like that,” Gwen smiles tightly. “He was given a blow to the head - the physician said he mustn’t be moved though. Since we can’t continue on our travels for now we seek a room and board, as well as stabling for two horses. And a bath if possible?”

“Aye, we can do that for you, mistress.” He gestures for a young boy to attend to him, and Merlin lets his attention wander. He doesn’t know what staying at an inn costs, but he knows that Arthur gave them a good ransom in gold. He hopes that doesn’t summon trouble down onto his overly generous princely head. He wonders what Arthur is doing right now. Is he safe? Who is bringing him breakfast every day?

He doesn’t come out of his thoughts until they are moving again, Morgana helping him up the stairs. The room is small for three, but tidy. There is a bed wide enough for two people who are willing to squish together as well as a little cot, and an ewer on a table. The boy and the innkeeper follow them with what at a generous stretch could be called a tub, but it’s more than most inns would have, so he’s grateful to see it.

The boy comes up again and again until it is full of water, unheated, and finally he returns one last time with a tray of food. It’s not much, and none of it hot, but it is things that Merlin can eat easily enough, and he knows Gwen must have asked for it. Perhaps the innkeeper had obliged out of pity - but whatever the reason he barely manages to wait for the boy to leave, a little shining coin in his hand, before he falls on it like a man starving. He supposes he had been starving though - neither Gwen or Morgana had managed to get him to take any food at all while he slept. They’ve had to forage since as well, to mediocre success, the supplies on the horses not enough for the three of them given how slow they were moving. It is down to luck that he has made it this far.

“Well that went alright I think,” Gwen says, kindly ignoring Merlin shoveling food in his face.

“Yes, all that planning for nothing,” Morgana sighs as she flops back onto the bed in a manner Merlin has seen Arthur do before when he is very tired. Sister indeed.

In truth they had devoted many of their hours traveling to concocting various and increasingly dramatic and mysterious stories - although eventually they had decided that probably no innkeeper would care much about it as long as they could pay. Merlin and Morgana bore enough resemblance to pass as siblings though, and Gwen and he were close enough in age to be wed, which is what they would claim if they were ever asked.

“I think if I lie down now I will not get back up again. I might take the bath if that’s alright,” Merlin speaks around his mouthful, holding up a hand to try and block the view.

“Oh, you should,” Gwen gently encourages.

“You _really_ should,” Morgana adds.

“I’d be offended, I think, but it’s true,” he huffs. He’d long since sweat through his clothes, feverish despite the chill still in the spring air. “Clothes could probably do with a wash, too, but I don’t have spares.”

“We can get you some. We should outfit ourselves soon anyway, there’ll be things we’ll need.”

“Hard to do when we don’t know where we’re going,” Morgana’s levity seems to evaporate - she has so far been giddy and miserable with guilt in turns. He doesn’t have it in him at the moment to consider anything past eating, bathing, and sleeping though, even if it makes him feel unkind.

“I do wish the water were hot, I don’t think I can manage it yet,” Merlin unabashedly changes the subject. Any faint notions of heating the water had abandoned him after he sat down. As it was he might not make it the three steps to the tub.

“Oh, that I can do!” Morgana sat up with a little smile for him.

“I forgot!” Merlin weakly laughs a bit in disbelief at himself. “I’m so used to being the only one with magic, I didn’t even think to ask you.”

Gwen rolls her eyes at him, but he’s happy to see her exasperated expression. She has not mentioned her father once, or the magic, merely insisting they needed to get somewhere safe before anything else. It was a strange thing to wish, but he _did_ wish that she would cry, or yell, even if it were at them. He swallowed around a bite of bread that suddenly sat like a rock in his throat. He blinks rapidly, eyes stinging.

Soon enough the bath is steaming away with Morgana standing by it looking proud, but she carries an unusual undercurrent of nervousness. It goes away entirely when Gwen merely claps her hands together.

“That’s handy! To think of all the buckets of water I’ve heated in my life.”

“It might be my favorite spell,” Merlin confides in her. “When I’m feeling better I’m going to make a bathtub as big as a house. I won’t get out of it for a week, either.”

“It’s not even banned here,” Morgana says while she and Gwen politely turn their backs to him as he strips out of his sweat stiff clothes - there’s not really space for modesty now. When she continues it’s rueful. “Although, I suppose if we don’t intend to draw attention to ourselves neither of us should be using it plainly anyway, it’s still not so common as that.” He wrinkles his nose. She’s right.

The water is just shy of too hot, and it stings a bit when his skinny ankles step in, but as soon as he’s submerged it’s bliss. His eyelids are so heavy, and the steam rising from the tub makes everything feel hazy and peaceful.

Gwen and Morgana continue to talk over his head as he sinks as deeply into the water as he can manage, his knobbly knees sticking up and making him feel suddenly bashful of them. He splashes the hot water on his face and scrubs, tries to wet his hair as best he can, but there’s no way he can dunk his whole head. He soaks for as long as he can bear to stay awake.

There is a short debate where Merlin is forbidden from sleeping on the cot while he recovers, being far too tall for it. Either his head or his feet would stick off the end of it - or more likely both. That argument ends when Morgana challenges him to a duel over it. He’s certain they all know how he would fare, especially now.

When he wakes up several hours later Gwen is laying beside him, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wet. Morgana is breathing evenly on the cot that she had dragged in between the bed and the door. The window is shuttered, and little slashes of moonlight cross the bedding. He opens his arms up to Gwen, and she pushes her wet face into his chest. She weeps silently, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s cried herself to sleep every night since they had left, or if the safety of four walls around her has finally released something that had been buried. Her hair is very soft and curly under his hands as he holds her, for far longer than after Gwen has finally drifted off to sleep.

***

After four nights of sleep in a bed Merlin is starting to feel a bit more himself. Gwen and Morgana have taken care of him so well while he has recovered that he doesn’t want to trouble them with the difficult discussion of what they intend to do from here. But they must decide. This strange frightened peace they’ve found won’t last forever.

Merlin thinks to the sigil that Arthur had given him, wrapped tightly in cloth at the very bottom of his bag. Arthur told him to come back, but to be safe. Had he been seen? Was Merlin discovered? Was _Arthur_ safe? He can’t imagine that Uther would do anything to his son, that Arthur could possibly be blamed for anything - but a month ago he would have sworn the same thing about Morgana. He would have been wrong. If Merlin hadn’t been there Uther would have killed Arthur when he stepped between the king and his ward, accident or no. Or crippled him. If his shoulder had taken that blow unarmored the best outcome would be losing the arm.

Merlin had been there, though. And now he’s not. The clearer his head feels as he heals the more he worries.

He _is_ recovering further every day though. He could fly to Camelot once he’s well enough - peck at Arthur’s window until he lets him in. Would Morgana and Gwen be safe though? Both of them could handle a sword better than he could, but Morgana was still a novice with her magic. Right now he was merely deadweight, but once he was stronger…

He was going in circles, and had been for days now. It was easy to fall back into the anxious over thinking that felt so familiar. How many times had he spun over telling Arthur about his magic?

He smashes his face into the pillow.

“Are you alright?”

Gwen is sitting next to Morgana as they look over one of Merlin’s magic books, the large tome spread over both their laps.

“Mrph,” he says into the pillow.

“Ah, that’s fine then,” Morgana teases him, and he throws the pillow at her. He misses and now he doesn’t have a pillow.

“I don’t want to talk about it, but we need to figure out what to do now. We can’t live in this room forever.”

“No, we can’t,” Gwen agrees. “But are you even well enough to travel?”

“I will be soon I think. Soon enough, anyway,” and he’s not even lying. He managed to clean their clothes the other day and he didn’t even feel faint. “A few more nights of good sleep and food maybe. Do you think anyone noticed that it was me? In the hall, I mean, with the magic?”

“You don’t mean to _go back_ do you?” Morgana sounds incredulous, her voice going a little shrill.

“I don’t know!” He admits. “I really don’t know what I’m meant to do now. Arthur wanted me to make sure you were safe, but he said he didn’t want me to go.”

“Well of course he doesn’t want you to go,” her voice is softer now. Her feet bounce in place. “I’m- Merlin. I’m so sorry. Not for telling the truth in front of the court, and certainly not for telling Uther what sort of man he is. But I never meant for this to happen to either of you. To take you away from your homes.”

“What home?” Gwen stops her, voice clear and strong. “My father is dead, and you were the only person who dared to speak of his innocence. I would have left with you if you had the chance to ask. I don’t want you to worry over that ever again. Merlin,” she trails off. “If you want to go back, of course you can. We’ll be fine. But, it’s only if, I mean - what if you were _seen_? You’d be killed. Not even Arthur could protect you - whatever you did, it was powerful. Even I can tell that much.”

“What do you think they even saw? Anything?” Morgana asks. “Or were we merely there one moment and gone the next?”

“I have no idea, I’ve never done that before. I don’t even know what I did,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face and into his hair. “I was just desperate. I wanted to keep everyone safe, and I still do - I won’t leave you both, that’s not what I meant. I just. I do want to go back, I really do. I want to make sure Arthur is safe at least. Maybe he has a plan.”

“But how would you get to him? People know you all over the city, you would be recognized for sure. Unless you have a means to disguise yourself?”

“I’d just fly I think, no one knows I can turn into a bird other than Lancelot and Gaius, well and Arthur of course. But I won’t go while things are so unsure. I promise.”

“You can turn into a bird?” Gwen’s voice is flat. She whips her head to look at Morgana. “Can _you_ turn into a bird?”

“No,” Morgana scowls.

Oh, he must have forgotten to tell her that bit. Whoops.

“It would be easier if we knew what was happening in Camelot. Is Arthur even still there or has the king sent him out seeking us? Have your dreams told you anything?”

“Not anything useful,” she holds the book up. “I’m trying to see if there is a spell that will let me focus more. Right now all I dream about is this inn where we already are.” She shuts the book with force. “I think now I’m just worried someone will discover us.”

“What if it is useful though? What if that means that we’re supposed to stay put for now?” Gwen exclaims. “Maybe Arthur _is_ out looking for us, maybe _he’ll_ come here.”

“You think so?” The thought perks Merlin up immensely. He knows he’s very obvious when Gwen gives him the truest smile he’s seen on her since before he and Arthur had left for the druids.

Time proves Gwen halfway right. Although when Merlin goes down into the main room of the tavern three days later it’s not Arthur he sees.

“Hello stranger!” Merlin hears a cheerful voice shout in his ear as an arm is thrown over his shoulder with familiarity.

“Gwaine! What? What are you doing here?” He should be worried, he thinks, about being seen by someone who knows him by name and sight, but he can’t stop his smile despite it.

“What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here? Where’s your good man?” Gwaine releases him with a friendly slap to his back.

“Not here,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. He’s a poor liar though, because Gwaine’s ever present smile turns just a shade dimmer.

“He turn out not so good?”

“No!” Merlin nearly shouts, hushing himself at the last moment. “It’s not that. We’ve been separated for a little is all.”

“Aw, is that why you look so bloody terrible?”

“Thank you, Gwaine, it’s so very nice to see you as well,” Merlin laughs. He does still look a bit terrible, so he can’t be too insulted about it.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink, you can tell me all about it.”

“I shouldn’t get drunk,” Merlin cautions him. “I haven’t been well, it’s true. I was going to eat if you still want to catch up with me.” He feels suddenly shy about being no fun.

“There’s no need to turn those eyes on me again, have some mercy,” Gwaine leads him to an empty table and pushes him into a chair. “I’ll go to the bar, you just sit pretty.”

He hasn’t gotten more used to being the one being waited on, and he traces the whorls and pockmarks on the wood table awkwardly while he waits. Is this what Morgana’s dreams had been about, or is it just a coincidence? To run into Gwaine now by chance seems too strange by half. For all that he had only known him such a short time Merlin can’t imagine he’s up to anything nefarious though. If he had wanted to cause trouble about what occured at the Crooked Plough he had ample opportunities that he didn’t take.

Gwaine sets a tankard of well watered drink in front of him, sliding into his own seat. “The barman will bring you something to eat. If it’s not too rude of me to say, you do need it. If it is too rude of me to say you still need it anyway though.”

Merlin smothers his smile by taking a sip. Sure enough, a bowl of a hearty looking stew and a slab of bread and butter are brought over for each of them, which keeps them occupied enough while Merlin tries to think of what to safely tell. Was Morgana’s dream a nothing more than normal worry, or a warning - or a sign of hope?

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Merlin tries to get Gwaine talking so he doesn’t have to.

“The same thing I was doing last time we saw each other of course!”

“Drinking?”

“Well, that and dice, but mostly,” he grins shamelessly. “I am a man of leisure, and not sorry for it. Wandering, selling my sword on occasion, seeking my fun more often, you know the rest. And what of yourself?”

Well that was a short distraction.

“Uhm,” Merlin promisingly begins, but then follows up with a long panicked silence.

“You should really work on that,” Gwaine advises him. “I’d go with something terribly dashing. You’re on a quest to rescue a beautiful damsel, or to slay a dragon, something to get the blood pumping. People keep the ale flowing if you’re a good storyteller.”

“Do I look like a dragonslayer?” Merlin croaks.

“Perhaps not,” Gwaine eyeballs him. “You could start smaller! Or who doesn’t love an artist, you could be looking for a muse. Or retrieving your stolen golden lute from your bitter rival. I’m just saying, there is potential here. Want to give it another go?”

“How about I buy you another drink?” Merlin stands up.

“Ah, sit down, keep your secrets. I see you are bent on becoming more mysterious than ever. I still don’t know how you fleeced me so well at dice.” He takes a long pull from his tankard. Merlin lowers himself back to his seat. “Is that why you’re being so skittish? Cheat the wrong man? You don’t seem the type.”

“No,” Merlin says. “Not really the type for that.”

“I didn’t think so!” He purses his mouth a bit before he leans closer. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me anything, it’s not my business. You do seem like a nice fellow though, and if you’re going to lie you should have something to actually say first.”

“It’s not that. Well. It is. Sorry.” Merlin squirms, clears his throat. “Have you heard anything out of Camelot lately?”

“I hope sincerely for your sake you aren’t caught up in that mess.”

“Why, what mess?” Merlin tries not to look as interested as he is. Rests his head in his hands.

“Well I don’t know _know_ , but there is gossip. If only I were the kind of man who hung around in taverns listening to gossip. Pity.” He pulls his face into an exaggerated moue of disappointment.

“I will jump across this table and strangle you,” Merlin promises.

“Hah!” Gwaine is merely delighted, not terrified. “I don’t know much, but I do know lots of red capes have been nosing around. Not that big a deal. It’s more that the sorcerers here are all in a tizzy that raises my hairs.”

“Wait, why are they in a tizzy?”

“Whatever happened in Camelot was big, anyone with a lick of magic down here felt it. Fellow over at the herb stand that makes hangover potions practices a little, he’s the one who told me. And old Uther’s sending men out like mad, people are saying it’s his own ward that’s the one who’s done it. There is a lot of gold on offer as a reward for information. Or her head. _So_ , like I said - I sincerely hope for your sake, that you are not caught up in that mess.” Gwaine finishes his ale and waves for another. “Is your lord stuck in Camelot? He of the merciful-to-haunted-tavern-owners persuasion? Because he didn’t seem keen to go straight in for the burning and beheading.”

“Yes he is - and no, he’s not,” Merlin murmurs. He can foggily recall that Arthur had never given either his name or position when they met, and so Gwaine has no idea that is is the prince of Camelot who had been so soft on magic that night. Or that Merlin has any real connection to the crown.

“He should leave then. Camelot is backwards, and Uther is as mad as any other nobleman. No, wait, that was wrong of me, I misspoke. He’s worse.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to do with this. It’s confirmed their fears, but it’s not really unexpected. The fact that some magic users down in Nemeth had felt what he did is more than alarming though - and they thought Morgana had been the cause. What did that mean for her? Is Camelot so dangerous now? He thinks of Uther’s temper, and Arthur’s blank face whenever he spends too much time with his father.

Merlin lays his head down on the table. It’s a little sticky.

“Well now I just feel like a monster. Come on, it’s not that bad! Certainly you’ll reunite.” He hears Gwaine get up and come around the table to sit next to him.

“What if I never see him again?” Merlin hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Gwaine’s hand is warm on his back as he gives him a hesitant pat. “I’m not so good at this part. I’d usually just get you drunk.”

“I wish I knew how to get a message to him. Anything.” There are so many bigger problems right now, he feels very petty. But the sudden swell of missing Arthur has overtaken him. It hasn’t even been a month, he’s just so _worried_.

“Ah, get your head up. I wasn’t going to go to Camelot while all this nonsense is going on. But it’s not so far as all that, and I’m no magician, I’d be safe as houses. How hard is your lord to find?”

“He’s pretty easy to find,” Merlin hedges. He lifts his head off of the table. To trust or not to trust, once again. He feels destined to face the same trials over and over again. But Morgana had led them here, and Gwaine had kept his word before. And it always felt better to trust. “If I wrote a letter, do you think you could take it to him? Really?”

“I can try,” Gwaine nods seriously.

“Give me a minute, I’ll be back. Get another drink, on me. Get ten!”

The stairs seem easier to climb, he feels lighter. He digs in his satchel for his little leather book he had bought for the library, only a quarter filled. It’s easy to tear a page out, but harder to think of what to say. Nothing incriminating, nothing revealing, just in case. He can’t put Arthur in any danger if he’s wrong to trust Gwaine, nor themselves. _Think, Merlin._

“What are you doing?” Morgana peers at him over the magic book. She’s barely put it down.

“I’m writing a letter to Arthur. There _was_ someone here, Morgana, I reckon your dream was right. A friend - I think we can trust him to take this to Camelot. But what do I say?” He’s got his quill in his hand, but hasn’t touched it to paper.

The page from his book is both too large and too small. He eventually jots down the only thing he can come up with, and thinks quickly. A merlin would be far too obvious, but he draws a very mediocre rowan tree next to it, stars shining in its branches. He feels silly about it. It’s not like Arthur wouldn’t be able to figure out who it was from. Still, there are so many things he can’t say, so he leaves it.

“Can I write something as well?” Morgana pads quietly to his side. He nods and passes the quill to her. “Don’t read it?” He obligingly turns his back to her, letting her be the one to fold it tightly shut. He pulls what is probably a little too much money from the bag as well.

“We won’t be able to stay here after this, even if he is a friend.” He nods at her.

“I know,” and he does. It’s been long enough already, and he knows with certainty that people seek them now. Even if Gwaine isn’t one of them sending a message is still a risk. He feels oddly alright with it though - they were going to leave anyway. He gives Morgana a bright smile, and feeling very pleased he gives the letter a kiss. She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s amused.

“He better be something special,” Gwaine sighs when Merlin comes back down.

“He is,” it’s easy enough to agree.

“And where do I find him?”

“Arthur of Camelot,” Merlin is deliberately casual. “He lives in a great big castle, you can’t miss it.”

“Oh, well then. Is that all.” Gwaine pockets the letter, chuckling feebly. “I guess that is pretty easy to find. The things I do for a pretty face.”

“Thank you, Gwaine.” Merlin lunges forward and gives him an impulsive hug.

“You better teach me how to cheat at dice after this. Only reason I’m doing this.” He squeezes back before letting go. “Only reason, I swear.”

“I believe you,” Merlin happily lies.


	14. Arthur Fights his Name

It felt to Arthur that every head in the kingdom had been brought low. _Don’t look at me_ , they seemed to say.

He saw them, though.

He saw their fear.

The king had not taken Morgana’s magic and escape with any sort of grace, saw betrayal in every corner and in every averted gaze. He sent knights scattering beyond the walls to find her, guards to search every house. His citizens feared him, feared his wrath, and he had stripped the city of many of her best defenders in a fruitless pursuit.

And Arthur knew it was fruitless, because he had seen to it. After the abrupt vanishing act from the great hall the horses had been gone, headed south. He can follow a trail more skillfully than any other man in service to the crown, and he had made certain that no one could follow that one - not even himself.

Arthur struggled to remember the king from his youth that he had admired so, but the memories feel sluggish and cloudy now. His father had been stern, always, but with an eye towards the prosperity and safety of his people. Or at least it had seemed as such to his childish mind. He had only been an infant when the purge began and ended. Was this what it was like then? When magic hung in the weight of the king’s actions, they slid ever further from rationality. His own anger towards his father sparks dangerously.

Arthur has only slept in his own bed a handful of nights since that day, and is reminded all too closely of his false chase of Mordred. He tries to be reassuring with his people, to uplift them. He knows so many of them from that same time, when his father wanted the crown to be seen. Well, he certainly had been, though perhaps not to the effect Uther desired. Mary had said hello to him with a nervous curtsy, and that they were doing fine thank you. Some men had tried to threaten her for coin but had been given the boot by the Clurichaun, and she felt more easy about it now.

Merlin would have been so happy to know.

He had thought that perhaps with Merlin’s absence he would think of him less often, but it was not so. Arthur missed him so fiercely that it shocked him. He’d grown dependant on the insolent honesty, on the feeling of being a person before a prince that only Merlin seemed to supply. He knew his own feelings ran deep, but never would he have thought he’d miss someone laughing at him so dearly. Gods he misses his stupid, joyful laugh.

Maybe it is just Merlin’s nature, or maybe it is because he is backed with an overabundance of power in his skinny frame, but from the very start he didn’t care a single whit about Arthur’s title. It was appalling at first, and then reassuring, to know that there was nothing under the sun that Arthur could _force_ Merlin to do. No threat Merlin could not escape, no gifts he could not make for himself - he could not be compelled. If he stayed by Arthur’s side, it was because he desired to be there.

And he was gone. He had sworn to come back, but he was still gone.

He shouldn’t blame Morgana, but he _was_ angry. Angry in that useless way that only burnt without warming that he was trying so hard to smother again. He would not become his father, his temper would never cast a black shadow over the kingdom like the Uther’s did now. He sometimes wondered if it would just burn him up from the inside out, all this fury that sat under his heart like a pyre, with nowhere to go, impotent and useless. He didn’t like to admit it, but he envied Morgana her freedom - that she got to let loose her temper on his father and steal away with Merlin.

But thinking like that led him only to dark, lonely places. Rather than it being a pyre he tried to imagine it was instead a forge, that he would come out tempered and stronger. He hoped it would prove to be true.

In the meantime, it was the least he could do to put himself to good use. Instead of turning over houses, when he led his men into a village they asked politely about Morgana, and when she was inevitably not there they inquired if there were any troubles that he and his knights could assist with. It turns out there frequently were.

Today he could admit the thought of bashing in bandit heads did make him feel a little better.

“Sire,” Leon calls out to him as Arthur sees to preparations to set out from the little village.

“Leon,” he answered. When he turned to his friend and second in command it was to see a familiar figure following him.

“This man has requested to speak to you,” Leon elaborated shortly.

“Sire,” Gwaine bowed, just shy of mockingly. “You are a harder man to track down than I was led to believe. You were not at your big shiny castle.”

Arthur feels his heartbeat quicken. Gwaine looks somewhat worse for wear, but nothing on his person gives anything away. They only have so many points of overlap though.

“No, I was not. Admirable dedication, making your way here.” They are quite near the Ridge of Ascetir once more, along the border of Cenred’s kingdom. It is a familiar path to him now, but not a journey one makes frivolously. He nods at Leon that he may go, but his friend lingers. “It’s fine, he’s harmless.”

“Harmless? Look at me. Arms like tree trunks.” He flexes and makes a considering face at Leon. Leon has a noticeable height on the other man, and is in full mail with his hand on his sword. He merely raises an eyebrow in question towards Arthur.

“He’s harmless - or useless. I can’t remember which. Or was it both?” Arthur repeats, but when Leon takes his leave he stays in shouting distance. Gwaine merely laughs.

“So, your _highness_ , good to see you again!”

“If only I could say the same,” Arthur nods at him though, “What has brought you looking for me?”

“Straight to the point I see. Well, you do seem the busy sort.” He leans in, overly casual. “I bear word for you from a mutual friend.”

It is in an instant like a band has snapped and released from his chest. Merlin. Wherever he is, he is well enough to dig Gwaine out of whatever ditch he’d been in and send him to Arthur. He has closed his eyes without realizing, and when he opens them Gwaine is holding out a small folded scrap of paper, an insultingly gentle look face.

His hand is not trembling when he takes it, but if he didn’t have years of sword training under his belt he thinks it might have been. It’s unsealed.

“I didn’t read it,” Gwaine promises. “I know you have no cause to believe me, but I didn’t.”

There is something about the cast of the late afternoon light that lends him a more sombre nature, and Arthur finds himself thinking that might be the truth.

“I believe you,” he says steadily, his voice grave.

“When you say it like that I get all shivery. I see now why he likes you so much,” Gwaine says, unable to stand the sincerity.

He can’t open it here, not yet, but he runs a finger along the torn edge.

“How was he?” He asks without meaning to. Honestly, if his fondness was not already the worst kept secret in Camelot it would be soon at this rate.

“Honestly? Bit rough. Said he hadn’t been well, but he was on the mend.” Gwaine shuffles awkwardly, rubs his nose. “I’m not one to get overly involved in other people’s affairs, mind you, but I’d say he wouldn’t be where I left him by now. If you were looking.”

“I’m not,” Arthur says sharply. “And neither are you. I’m sure he’s long gone from wherever you last saw.”

“It took ages to find you, you know, he might be all the way round the world by now. So, you know, I couldn’t tell anyone how to find him anyway.” Gwaine agrees amiably.

Arthur takes it in the spirit that it is meant. “I would reward you for this, for coming this distance. From wherever you started.” he offers.

“He paid me, you know - way too much. I probably should have told him, but you are very difficult to lie to. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Yes,” Arthur says flatly, making sure Gwaine can’t tell if he’s jesting. He’s not nearly as fun to wind up as Merlin is, but still. “Why did you come all this way? It can’t have been an easy journey to track me down, no matter what promises you may have made.”

“He asked very nicely.” Gwaine looked him up and down and sighed. “He’s got a very difficult face to say no to, though, that’s the truth. I’ve never met any lord worth that kind of loyalty. I guess I wanted to see for myself again - are you something different or is he just a fool?”

“Well, he is a fool,” Arthur scoffs, trying not to think too deeply about Merlin’s extraordinary devotion.

“And where are you headed in such a hurry? I’ve more to say if you’ll let me.”

“The people here are having some issues with bandits along the road ahead, and we have promised them aid. If we intend to take action today we must depart quickly. I’d hear you out afterwards if you remain.”

“The road into Escetir you mean?”

“Is there another?” Arthur would rather not dally into Cenred’s land if he can help it. It’s likely what the bandits are hoping for, that neither kingdom would have much presence or be willing to push past the border. This village is more of an outpost than anything else, they would not be able to muster any defence of their own, and he will not merely leave them to their fate.

“And do you just intend to wander along, very obviously Camelot knights, and wait for them to leap upon you?” Gwaine’s voice dripped with skepticism.

“I won’t have one of the villagers risk themselves just in an attempt to provoke them. We’ll be able to track their camp.” Arthur mulls this over, considers. “Unless… you’d like to be bait.”

***

A lone traveler is too tempting of a target. When they pour out of the treeline his own men deal with the handful of bandits with the swiftness he has come to expect and demand from them. It was not anywhere close to a fair fight - but then, it was never a fair fight between this camp and the village, either.

After the exceptionally short battle, Gwaine finds him.

“This is not what I had in mind when I said I wanted to see what kind of lord you are!” He hissed.

“I don’t know, I think it was a very succinct lesson,” Arthur argues. He flips over one of the dead men. No insignia, but that’s hardly a surprise. He raises his voice. “Leon! We need to find their camp and see what can be recovered. There may yet be more of them.”

Gwaine stays at his heels as he heads to the copse of trees where they had first sighted them. They’ve made no efforts to hide themselves, and it is easy work to follow the trail further inwards. The bandits are either lazy or very certain of themselves, as it is barely a quarter hour walking carefully through the woods before they come across a small circle of scattered tents and wagons.

He holds up his hand and gestures for his men to surround. There is no movement but two men sitting at the campfire, both of which have their backs to his approach. One has his hands full tending to whatever they are cooking over the fire, but the other sharpens his blade with a whetstone. It is to his neck that Arthur holds his sword.

“Drop your sword,” he commands. The man swings around with his blade raised, but it’s the work of a moment to disarm him and put him on his knees. When the other tries to run, it’s Leon who stands between him and escape. “Bind them. Search the camp.”

There is not much to search, truthfully. Even with the previous fight this had been a small force of men only. Barely an encampment at all. He checks the remaining tents to make sure there will be no ambush, but there are no others.

“Here, sire,” Leon calls to him, as alarmed as his steadiest knight ever is. When Arthur sees why he understands. By the wagon he has pulled back the covering to reveal two young women, still nearly children themselves, and a boy, chained. They are silent and terrified. “I believe these men to be slavers. We mean you no harm,” he directs to them. “Please. If you will allow me I will unbind you.”

Slavers. In Camelot.

He forces himself to take a steadying breath.

“You will provide the key to their chains,” Arthur demands.

“I’ll provide nothing,” the bandit spits.

“You will provide the key, or you will die here and now and I will take it from your corpse - but either way I shall have it.” He tilts the man’s chin up with the edge of his sword.

He is only brave for a moment before fumbling the key from his belt, but the prisoners seem no less frightened. Arthur tries to make himself as small as he can as he goes to unlatch the prisoners himself. He is glad he has done so - as such it is only he, Leon, and a hovering Gwaine who see the druid markings. He draws in a breath.

“No one here will hurt you,” Arthur murmurs to them. “I give you my oath. On my life.”

One of the women turns her head from him in fear, covering the boy from them as best she can. The other has a defiant air about her as she glares at him, but the whites of her eyes betray her.

“I know it may mean little to you, but I swear it.” The boy squirms to try and get free, and Arthur looks about to make sure none of the other knights are within earshot. There is one other thing to try. “Does the name Emrys mean anything to you?” He whispers. Three wide eyed stares of disbelief blink back at him.

“Arthur?” Leon lowers his head to question him.

“I see nothing dangerous here, merely victims of these men, don’t you agree?” Leon is a just and fair man, as well as a loyal one. Arthur clenches his jaw as he waits nonetheless.

“It is as you say, sire.”

“Command the men to begin to pack what can be recovered and returned to the village.”

Leon dips his head as he turns away to issue his orders. Gwaine doesn’t budge, but he does turn to keep watch and make sure none approach. Infuriating man.

“What’s your name?” He asks the girl who meets his eyes.

She bites the inside of her cheek and flicks her brown eyes to his red cloak twice before she answers him. “Llwyfen.”

“And your friends?”

“Sefa, and Ewan.”

“If you’ll forgive me, I do not recall seeing you before. Are you kin of Iseldir and his people?”

“How do you know of Emrys?” She asks him instead.

“He is a dear friend to me. And he would want me to take you home.”

“Emrys? A friend to _you_?” Her tone is so incredulous that he has to stifle a smile.

“Well, I certainly consider him a friend at least. He’s called me a few less flattering names in the past, but I think we get on fairly.”

“Like what?” Ewan asks.

“Like cabbagehead,” Arthur confides to him, a shared secret. “I’d prefer if you called me Arthur though.” The boy has a missing tooth when he smiles shyly at Arthur. “Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“My father was visiting with Iseldir,” Sefa offers nervously. “We were taken from the forest - they spoke of taking us to a man called Jarl, but I know nothing else.”

“Was the druid camp in the forest near here? How long ago were you taken? If I know the way I will take you back myself.”

“It was two days past.” Llwyfen answered.

“And have they given you any food or water?” Sefa shakes her head and Arthur holds out his hand to help them out of the wagon, takes off his cape to wrap it around the boy, covering his exposed mark. “You don’t have any shoes,” he notices.

“They took them when I tried to run away to get help.” He seems annoyed, but his chest puffs up tellingly.

“That was very brave of you - maybe sit on the wagon for now though. Gwaine, find his shoes. Or take them off the slavers feet. We’d have to stuff them but he can’t walk home barefoot.”

“My pleasure,” Gwaine’s voice is light, but he takes the order with unusual grace, stalking towards the bound man.

“I think it’s fair you get to eat their dinner, too,” Arthur offers them. It’s not likely to be much, but it will be hot. When he turns to the campfire, Leon has his eyes on him. “Wait here a moment.”

He has known Leon for as long as he can remember, had trailed after him as the older boy had trained and became a squire. He had always been tolerant of Arthur’s demanding nature, and his play fighting with Arthur before he had permission to handle even a blunted sword are some of Arthur’s earliest memories. His dignity and loyalty have proven him to be an exceptional and well-loved knight, but he cannot tell what Leon thinks now.

“They need to be fed,” Arthur says as they come together by the campfire. Indeed, they all look quite pitiful, dirty and huddled together. Leon nods.

“That they do. Sire,” he hesitates. They both begin searching for bowls. “They have done no wrong, and have been taken from their homes. I believe this is the truth.”

“As do I,” Arthur says.

“Arthur,” he swallows, “you can trust me to follow your leadership. I am loyal to my king, but also to my prince, and I am not senseless. And - I wanted you to know - that Gwen is my friend. I don’t know if you remember, but her mother worked for my household before she passed. Gwen and her brother Eylan came with her often, and I have many happy memories of it. I just… wanted you to know that.”

Arthur clasps his shoulder, feeling unaccountably touched. He hadn’t known. Had he met her then? Is his memory poor or did he merely not see servants the same way as a youth? He knows he has changed, that his world had opened up as he met more and more people. Learned that the value of a person didn’t come from their blood, but from their actions, their character. It saddened him to think of a tiny Gwen ignored by a rude little sod of a prince, especially compared to Leon’s indulgent treatment of him when he was young.

“I am quite certain she will be well, wherever she is,” he promises. “Try not to worry so much, she wouldn’t thank you for it.”

“That is certainly true enough,” Leon offers him a tight smile. “Thank you, sire, I am relieved to hear you say so.”

By the time they make their way back to the druids with steaming bowls full of an unappetizing looking stew Gwaine has returned as well. He kneels in front of Ewan, helping him into some freshly pilfered boots.

“There, not even so big as all that,” he’s saying to him. “Very ladylike feet, these bandits.” He pinches the toe of one of the boots and swings the boy’s leg around to make him laugh.

“Here,” Arthur offers the bowl, Leon with his hands full following up behind him. “Eat up, you’ll need your strength - you’ll be home before you know it.”

***

“So you’re just going to keep following me then?” Arthur pokes at Gwaine. “How far? I draw the line somewhere before you try and crawl into a tent after me.”

“You should be so lucky,” Gwaine scowls at him. “I’d at least see them home, I’m not heartless!”

“Hm,” Arthur agrees. They had parted ways with his other men, ordering them to return to the village and take the captured men to Camelot for judgement. Let his father’s temper fall on people who deserved it for a change. If Arthur had failed to mention they intended to return these captive children to the druids no harm was done from it. “And not useless either, I take it back.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to see my finer qualities your highness!”

“Yes, you made perfectly acceptable bait,” he says evenly. “I’d let you get attacked by bandits anytime.”

Leon snorts indelicately as Gwaine gapes in exaggerated affront. He’s putting on a show for his audience of one as Ewan trails after him. There is no accounting for the tastes of children.

They will not make it to the druid camp without rest, but the winding path is known to him, even as night approaches. It had only been a bare few months since he had traversed it with Merlin after all. He wonders if the red flowers still grow there, and the rowan tree. He hopes so.

But perhaps he will not find out today. A wash of sickly yellow light blooms out of the dusk and passes over him with no warning, and he hears Leon and Gwaine draw their swords while one of the girls screams in fright. He takes in a deep breath, but other than a thrumming sensation in his fingertips he seems unharmed, and he turns to meet whatever new threat approaches as well.

An older man stands on the higher ground above them, grey in his beard. His shock that Arthur still stands passes quickly, and he draws his own weapon.

“Father!” Sefa shouts out. “No, they helped us!”

“Knights of Camelot? You are mistaken my daughter, come away from there.” But before he can step forward another man puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. Another handful of druids step out of the treeline, some of whom he knows.

“Prince Arthur, we did not anticipate seeing you again so soon,” Iseldir greets him. If Sefa’s father had been dour before, at his name an even darker look clouds his face.

“Iseldir,” Arthur calls out. He walks around Leon who has placed himself between the druids and Arthur with his hands raised in peace. “I wish this were under happier circumstances. But the men who captured your friends here have been dispatched - although I see you were well prepared to defeat them yourselves,” he cannot help saying somewhat wryly. “We sought only to make sure they had safe travels home.”

“Lies.” The man who attacked him insists.

“Go on to your father now,” he nods at Sefa. “It is the truth. Believe your daughter if not myself.”

“She is a kind girl, and no doubt you did save them. Only for the purpose of finding the location of the druids and returning with force I am sure - a Pendragon can do no differently.” Sefa has climbed up the slope to tug on his sleeve like a much younger child.

“No, father, he knew the way already. We were kept in a covered wagon and couldn’t find the way back ourselves!”

“He has known of our location for months now,” Iseldir says firmly. “Be at peace, the prince is not his father. Emrys was with him.” The man’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. “ _Ruadan,_ ” he says more sharply. “There need be no more bloodshed today.”

“Or, if you want blood, maybe take it out on the men who tried to enslave your daughter instead of the ones who saved her,” Gwaine interrupted.

“Gwaine!” Arthur snaps.

“He attacked you, sire,” Leon has not lowered his sword.

“Not very _well_ ,” he says mulishly. Ruadan’s eyes narrow at him dangerously.

The tense air hovers for a moment before Ewan and Llwyfen move to join the druids. Ewan gives a short hug to Gwaine first, and they walk up the rocks slope between the standoff, backs open and unafraid to Arthur. It’s rather deliberate of them, he thinks amusedly - they are perhaps a bit more cunning than he had given them credit for.

“So be it,” Ruadan finally speaks. “But I will not have more strange men following us. We part ways here, and you will give me the names of those who captured our children.”

“Jarl,” Gwaine says easily. “Some arsewipe in Escetir.”

Arthur sighs and lowers his hands, suddenly feeling very tired, “Thank you, Gwaine.”

“ _What_?”

“I will waste no more time with you,” Ruadan looks down upon them, “but I will give you my thanks for rescuing my daughter, if that is indeed the way of it.”

Iseldir bows his head for a moment. “Yes, thanks are in order. I’m sorry we cannot offer you any hospitality, but I agree that more strangers to our camp is not what we need now. I believe it is time that we move on from here.” He brings his hood over his white hair in a gesture that Arthur finds overly dramatic, or perhaps he is just very tired and becoming unkind. “We shall see each other again, Prince Arthur.”

Arthur lowers his head in return. He cannot find it in himself to fault them. They had stayed in one place longer than they usually would, and he had the suspicion that it was at least partly to do with himself and Merlin. The druids had not been taken aback by their arrival, and had in fact spoken as though their visit had been preordained. Perhaps it was.

“Bye,” Ewan waves at them from behind the legs of a tall man.

“You eat well and grow into those boots,” Gwaine instructs him.

“Be safe,” Arthur offers. Llwyfen nods at him seriously.

“But wait, what did you cast upon Prince Arthur?” Leon insists.

Ruadan gives him another evaluating look, already half turned away towards the woods. “It seems to not matter, as he is unaffected by it. You would be suffering already had it taken. I will speak no more of it.”

It does not take long for them to disappear into the dark woods. He doesn’t know if they use magic to hide, but they might as well have, given how thoroughly they vanish. The shuffling of their own boots is the only noise for a time, before Leon sheaths his sword.

“Known about their location for months?” He asks, but not with accusation.

“Ah, leave off him,” Gwaine scoffs.

“That man attacked you - with magic,” Leon repeats.

“He thought we were going to kill his daughter. Or come back to slaughter the entire camp,” Arthur doesn’t particularly want to defend Ruadan, but he also doesn’t want to fight with Leon about the druids. “I’m fine. Whatever it was didn’t feel like anything.”

“What if it’s a curse? There is no way of telling if that was the truth.”

“I feel completely fine though. Didn’t you see he was startled it did nothing? I don’t think that was his intention, but I have benefited from it.” Arthur turns to begin the trek back. They should put some distance between themselves and the druids before making a place to rest for the night.

“But _why?_ ” Leon presses, hounding him. “I cannot in good consciousness allow a man who has assaulted you walk away with no consequence. What if it did not fail at all, and you will feel the effects of this spell days from now?”

Arthur throws his hands up into the air. “I don’t know! Iseldir and his people are peaceful though - perhaps it was their protection. They have sheltered me before.”

“Forgive me,” Leon sighs. “I would understand though. Please, sire, if you would just tell me bluntly, I would beg to hear you out.”

“You remember the druid boy of course,” and of course he would. Camelot had been shook upside down over him. “He was Ewan’s age or so. A boy. He didn’t deserve a chopping block. I was the one to help him escape.” No need to damn anyone else.

“You a big fan of murdering children?” Gwaine asks Leon.

“What?! How dare you?-”

“Then I don’t see what the big deal is. Neither of you want to kill children, seems like we’re all on the same page here!” Gwaine claps his hands and shows they are empty, as though the matter is done with entirely now.

Arthur drags a hand through his hair. He is more glad than he can say that they were able to help return the three to the druids, but it had been a long day. Leon would not say a word against him for helping an innocent child, that had been established clearly enough to him. But if he thought Arthur was under an enchantment…

“Listen to me. I am fine. Watch me for a while if it pleases you, but I feel very much myself. It is my belief that the protections set by the druids did not allow harm to come to one who meant them no ill - because they _are_ peaceful. Offer me a little faith in my judgement, Leon.”

“It is not you I doubt, sire, but I do doubt that man - Ruadan. I will hold my judgment. I _do_ trust you, Arthur.”

“Then let this be the end of it for now. There is a long distance to cover before we make camp, and I would speak of happier things before we stop. I feel my head will burst. From the length of the day, not from magic,” He clarifies before Leon can get going again. Worrywart.

“If you want a happy story, I for one am able and willing to oblige you. For instance, I think fondly on a beautiful maiden named Sylvia. I will tell you of her many virtues-”

“I doubt you know many virtuous women,” Leon sighs at him.

“Not for long, it’s true! Those were not the virtues I meant, however. Let me explain it to you in a way that you’ll understand-”

Arthur meets Leon’s eyes and shares a commiserating look.

They’ll be fine.

***

At the campfire during his turn at watch, with Leon and Gwaine deeply asleep, he finally takes out the scrap of paper once more. It is not a large enough piece to carry a long message, but he is desperate for any news at all. Unfolding it in the firelight the ink sticks where it didn’t have proper time to dry - Gwaine had not read it after all. In Merlin’s quick and clever handwriting it read simply:

_All will be well. I have left a candle lit for you, please leave your window open for me - and hope for clear skies! I think of you._

And a crude drawing of what if you squinted might be the very tree that was grown only a short distance away from him now. Below that was another message, in Morgana’s flowing script.

_I am sorry. It was not my intention, but I have stolen something precious from you. I vow on my very life to return it in pristine condition._

_Well_ , he thought, feeling cut off at the knees. It was harder to hold on to his anger with her now.


	15. Merlin Fights for World's Longest Hug Champion Title

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are still reading this far thank you so much!

Once his magic had started to recover it had not seemed to stop.

Merlin was overflowing, and it led to a lack of control he thought he had long past outgrown. He felt unfettered somehow, but from chains he hadn’t even known existed. They traveled together, south through Nemeth, and by the time they began to approach the shore he was ready to burst.

The entire length of the journey had been full of practicing both sword fighting and magic, and Merlin had no idea where his energy was coming from. They helped people where they could along the way - Merlin got to use his physicians skills a few times - and once appall Morgana by helping give birth to a lamb. It _was_ a messy business. He could remember the spell he had read in the library with perfect clarity. No one tried to kill him even a little!

Swords still made him nervous of cutting off his own fingers, so while Gwen and Morgana got on with that he carried a staff and tried to bop them with it on occasion to keep them on their toes. He’d yet to succeed, but that didn’t bother him much - he only carried it because his friends insisted he be armed after all. He flew ahead as a bird, and back, and did loops in the sky to amuse Gwen and Morgana down below.

It was him who found the coastline first, an endless unbroken expanse of deep blue. He came out of the sky to stand on two feet on the sand and feel it on his toes, but he scared the absolute life out of an otter. It made him laugh and then it was alright though, because _he_ was an otter too! He didn’t come back until hours of exploring the water had past, and he didn’t even realize it until he saw Gwen’s worried face in the dusk light. He also forgot his boots. He’ll need to go back and get them before he forgets.

“I’m sorry,” he says, chest heaving like a bellows as he flops down on the grass. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“We’ll go with you tomorrow,” Morgana says. “Neither of us will worry so much if we can see you. And I want to look out over the sea, too. Was it very beautiful under the water?”

“Yes,” he rolls his head to look at her, beaming. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The grass grows very tall in the sea.”

“Did you find any sunken treasure?” Gwen asks him, forgiving him too quickly for making her worry.

“Not today! Maybe tomorrow. I need to go back and get my boots.”

“Merlin,” Gwen laughed, “how on earth did you forget your boots?”

“I wanted to feel the sand, so I took them off, it makes perfect sense.”

“Ah yes, of course. Forgive me, Sir Otter.”

Merlin waves his hand magnanimously above his head, and a trail of colorful sparkles swirl lazily after it while some camp chores start doing themselves. Whoops.

“I would like to practice more magic tonight. It’s too dark for swordwork.” Morgana kicks her feet out in front of her from where she sits, impatient.

“But what should we practice?” Merlin can remember the morning after he told Arthur of his magic with perfect recall. Beyond the constant ache of missing him, the prince would be so _useful_ right now. He just know Arthur would have a million ideas on how to bully Merlin around in the best way. Plan out clever magics to try and experiment with, know how to be useful in a fight - something Merlin still was not confident about.

“Maybe how to speak like Mordred did?”

“Gwen, you are clever and wise, have I told you that?”

“I could stand to hear it again.”

He rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. “Guinevere,” he says seriously, “you are both clever and wise.” And he held a hand out to her, creating a rose for a gift.

“And me?” Morgana asked him archly.

“Meh,” he rolled back over, laughing along with them both after Morgana let out a surprised cackle. If she’d laughed like that in court the ladies would have gossiped for a week. He grinned at her.

She scooted closer and pushed him until he sat up. “Alright, how shall we try?”

_Like this?_ He asked her.

She squinted at him. “Well, did you hear me?” She asked.

_No, can you hear me?_ He looked at Gwen. _How about you?_

“I can hear you!” Gwen cheered.

“Ugh, so can I,” Morgana complained.

“Keep trying, you’ll get it,” he tried to encourage. It wasn’t Morgana’s fault that his magic was going insane.

After several more minutes of silent squinting Merlin felt a whisper stirring in his mind. “Oh, you’re doing something.” He sat up straighter.

_Merlin is the future Queen of Camelot_.

“I am not!” He squawks out loud.

“Oh good, it _is_ working,” she smirks at him. “Well that’s not that hard of one I guess. Hm, what else. I’d quite like to be able to stop a sword like you did, how did you do that?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I did it by accident the first time,” like a lot of his magic, he thought, “but it was while I was trying to learn more metal properties. I was tasked with figuring out the candle holder, and Gaius started me on the basics. I kind of do a push and pull, to separate some bits from other bits?” Merlin trailed off at Gwen’s look of pity.

“Maybe I’ll take over the metals lecture,” she offers, “my family did run a smithy you know.” Her eyes are sad as she says it.

“I can never put things back together if I break them like that anyway. It would be an expensive hobby, and we only have two swords.”

“I’ll teach you about it though even still. Tomorrow maybe, I think. Perhaps next place we stop with a smith we can buy some scraps or some nails for you to practice instead of swords, too. What else would be useful?”

Morgana looks at the darkening sky and hums. “Comfortable boots? Weightless armor? A pack that carries itself?”

“You’re just spoiled,” Merlin laughs at her and she sticks her tongue out at him

What would be useful? What would he like best right now? Well, to see Arthur, of course. It had been months, and he still found himself turning to an empty space to talk to him all the time. He’s taken to writing a bit to him in his little book every day, and it helped some. He had gone to his window - only once so far, though he could be there and back so _quickly_ as a bird - but Arthur had not been there at all. It _had_ been open though, surely that meant Arthur was still thinking of him as well. Merlin left him a pretty colored rock and another letter folded carefully to fit under the candle holder that was still out, certain that it would be easy to figure out.

He was too afraid to try and find Lancelot, still not knowing if he was discovered, but he had left a note for Gaius that he was safe. Hopefully Gaius was safe as well. The mood in the city had seemed bleak for the short time he lingered. He felt a sudden well of guilt for having fun all afternoon frolicking in the ocean. He would bet Arthur hadn’t had the chance to spend all afternoon lazing about.

“No, weightless armor would be amazing,” Gwen argues. “If I could forge that I’d sell one and retire to live like a Queen.”

“Hah!” Morgana taunts him, and returns to speaking with Gwen as he rolls his eyes and looks into the fire that had already been lit when he arrived.

It would be better to not need armor at all, he thought. Or to not burn. There had been a pyre set up in the courtyard, and he hadn’t had the heart to tell Morgana, wondering if it had sat there all the while. Was it for her? Or how many had been killed since they left? It had been unlit, and had remained unlit when he had to leave in order to fly back.

Maybe there was a magic to let someone walk through fire, or hold their breath for hours, or to make your skin strong enough to deflect an axe swing. With how he felt lately maybe he could just break every sword in every army to pieces and give them something to think about. He scooted closer to the fire, and let his hand get close until he felt the radiant heat of it.

“What are you doing?” Morgana asked him with some alarm.

“Oh,” he realized that was probably a bad idea. “I think being able to touch fire without being burned would be a good thing. But maybe I should start a little smaller.” He brought his hand back.

“That _would_ be useful,” she says slowly, “but yes, please don’t start out by just sticking your hand in a campfire. I don’t know about you, but I don’t know any healing magic.”

“Healing! Now that would be something,” Gwen cuts through his awkward feelings with her enthusiasm.

Merlin’s strange mood lingers until Gwen falls asleep. He should try as well, Morgana has first watch, followed by him and then Gwen. He instead sits close to her.

“What is it?” She nearly whispers.

“What are we doing?” He asks. “I mean, I know what we’re doing. But what are we _doing_? Are we going to just wander around learning magic and having fun forever now?”

Morgana is quiet as the fire crackles, sparks shooting up in the sharp breeze. The coast wind was bracing, and it sent more bits glimmering through the air before she answered. “I want to go back, and I want to free every single magical person hiding in fear, and dethrone Uther. By whatever means I need.” She said bluntly. “But I don’t know how yet, and my dreams tell me nothing, and - I’m not strong enough. And I don’t want to ask you to murder a man for me. Arthur’s father.”

He’s not surprised. If anything only a little shocked it had taken her this long to say so. It wasn’t in her nature to just walk away and seek her own happiness while the people she had loved so much suffered.

“I don’t know about court or anything. I didn’t grow up where it mattered at all.” He clears his throat, making sure Gwen was still asleep. Not that she’d argue _much_ , he thought. “Is there a way to dethrone a king without the, you know, murder?”

“Maybe, if he’s unable to fulfil his duties. Madness or something. Which, it’s funny, since I would call him mad already,” she twists her lips at him, but it’s not quite a smile. “Arthur would be regent.”

“He’d be a good one,” Merlin nods. “You’ve seemed happier out here though. No one would fault you for finding your freedom.” And it was true. She had traded in her beautiful gowns that she wore with such grace and ease for leathers and swords, and they seemed to fit her equally as well. She could wander and learn magic for the rest of her life if she could learn to be content with it.

“ _I_ would fault myself,” she says firmly. And that is the crux of it. As long as Uther ruled in Camelot she would not be content.

He’s not sure where this puts him.

He wishes he could see Arthur.

“You know, if you wanted to have a secret conversation we can speak in our minds now, right?” She whispers as she leans into him. He puts his head in his hands, trying to be quiet as he groans.

Thankfully his boots are still on the beach in the morning, and it hadn’t even rained.

“Come on, let’s see you then!” Morgana goads him. She’s taken off her own boots to wiggle her toes in the sand on his advice.

He gamely turns into an otter as they whoop at him. He feels mischievous this morning, so he snatches one of Morgana’s boots too quickly for her to stop and runs away with it. It’s a little too large for him to carry easily at this size though, and he can feel himself having to do a funny little wiggle while he runs to keep it up high enough not to drag.

He chances a look behind him. Gwen is laughing so hard she is clutching her stomach and has had to sit down, but Morgana is in hot pursuit.

It’s another fun day.

He picks up a pretty shell.

They make camp and go to sleep.

“Catching arrows would be useful,” Merlin says, thinking of Arthur’s questions about his magic. Then he spends a week getting pebbles tossed at him with increasing speed.

He doesn’t wear armor, though he has consented to wear the quilted gambeson that Gwen had bought him before they left Gedref - but he still flinches a lot. Morgana in particular is merciless.

At night Gwen nervously holds out a thin stick that she had lit in the campfire while Merlin trails his fingers closer and closer to it.

He doesn’t even mean to, but he becomes a stoat on accident when one leaps out of a hedge and makes him scream in fright. Morgana laughs for _days._

“I want to try and visit Arthur again,” Merlin says on a morning when the weather is clear. It’s safe enough for the two of them to wait here for _one_ day, he thinks.

It itches under his skin, that he hasn’t seen Arthur for so long. He thinks about the sigil in the bottom of his bag, what it could have meant. He has known he cares deeply for Arthur for a long time, with a different note than his friendship with Morgana or Gwen. Or anyone. The ache and the unbroken longing in his heart makes him wonder if it’s more than infatuation - if it’s love.

***

Arthur’s window is unlatched again.

He _must_ still be waiting for Merlin too. It relieves him - that maybe his fears at night when he’s on watch alone are baseless. That Arthur has found better friends or more clever ones while Merlin has been off galavanting and learning magic. Which is still banned here, of course.

He’s not honestly expecting Arthur to be here, considering he has not been the past three times Merlin has tried to visit him. Summer has passed and autumn has just begun. He’s left him that pretty shell he found, and a little dragon that Merlin had made out of metal when he was showing off for Morgana under the guise of teaching.

Pushing in the window as a bird is awkward, and his talons make a scratching sound as he finds purchase on the stone. When he turns and sees Arthur standing by his bedside with a heart wrenching look on his face Merlin’s own heart gives a great return lurch in his chest. He sits there, struck dumb.

“You’re still a bird, Merlin,” Arthur says lowly, and what a pleasure it is to hear his voice again. He looks impossibly even more handsome than Merlin had remembered. He’s been busy, he must have been, to not be at the castle for so long, but the proof is in the breadth of his shoulders, the sharpness of his jawline. He’s only in a thin tunic and his softest sleeping trousers, and Merlin feels voyeuristic as he relearns the shape of him, but he cannot seem to look away.

“Merlin, _please_ ,” Arthur stresses, and he realizes he’s still a bird. Oh. Yes, Arthur had said that. Nervousness fills him, but he’s never been very good at denying Arthur anything.

He’s himself again in an instant, and Arthur has swung his arms open - it’s only a few long strides to fill them. His face feels overheated and his eyes and nose are tingling as though he might cry, but he tries not to. He’s dizzy with it though, and he pushes his face into Arthur’s neck to hide. Strong arms are around him just a shade too tightly, and Merlin thinks that Arthur probably had missed him too. He smells the same, like the soap from the laundry and the sword oil from the armory.

“Lock the door, you can’t be seen here,” Arthur whispers into his hair, and his voice is wet. Before he even finishes the word ‘the’ it’s been done, the click of it obvious in the quiet room. Arthur tuts at him but he’s amused, Merlin can tell. “Still banned, Merlin.”

“Shh,” Merlin manages. He doesn’t lift his head, not even when Arthur drags his hands down his back in a long sweep and back up again to pet through his hair. Arthur’s broad chest moves like he’s laughing, and eventually he pushes Merlin back, just a bit.

“Come on, let me look at you,” Arthur demands.

That halting shyness comes back, and he bites his lip before he meets Arthur’s eyes. He’s not sure why it feels at once so strange and so familiar. They are still the same shade of blue, and he has a few summer freckles, his hair is a little bit brighter from being under the sun so much. He knows Arthur has changed and grown though, and that Merlin wasn’t here for it. He wonders what Arthur sees when he looks at him.

“Won’t you say anything?” Arthur teases him, but he’s smiling so wide his cheeks must hurt from it. “Is this what it takes to get you speechless?” His hands are still on Merlin’s arms, and his thumbs are rubbing in little circles, and _of course_ Merlin can’t say anything, he can barely _think_. This _must_ be love, he thinks, how stupid to have ever questioned it. It seems so easy once he is here with Arthur again, all his doubts evaporating to swift nothingness.

“I miss you so much,” Merlin finally gets out, which just sets off his happy tears, and he knows his ears are as red as anything. He pushes his way back into Arthur’s arms and decides he just won’t come back out, he lives here now.

“I’ve missed you too,” Arthur confides, and Merlin hears him sniffle a little too. He shouldn’t be so pleased, but he is. He’s wondered every day how Arthur was faring, if he was safe, but also if he was still thinking about Merlin. He didn’t _really_ believe that Arthur would give his mother’s sigil away lightly, but he was also not quite sure what it meant. Was he imagining things, that Arthur’s cheeks had pinked a bit when he gave it to Merlin, when he told him to come back? They were more than master and servant, but was he just a friend to Arthur? He knows Camelot is very different than Ealdor, but he doesn’t think that _most_ princes act as Arthur does towards him towards their manservants. Probably. That would be strange. Or had Merlin been fired for not showing up to work for months? This is quite a long hug. He’s never hugged Will this long, that’s for sure.

He would very much like to know, but he’s too much of a coward to ask. He sighs out a puff of air and tries to just enjoy being held for a moment longer. There is much to talk about, but Arthur is very warm, and his chest moves with every fascinating breath, which seems far more important.

Arthur is braver than him though, or had never questioned it at all, because soon enough a calloused hand finds his jaw,tilts him upwards, and then he is being kissed. It’s not a quick peck like the few other kisses he’s had before, and neither is it one of fiery passion. It is sweet, and encouraging, and Merlin feels no less like he might cry. It’s just like coming home after being away - which is exactly what it is, he supposes. He needs to breathe, and when he parts his lips to sigh Arthur deepens the kiss, and everything feels wonderfully warm, and soft, and liquid. His hands have come up to grip at Arthur’s shirt as if he’s about to swoon like a maiden in a story, which is fair - his knees feel like they could buckle at any moment. He didn’t think that really happened.

When Arthur pulls back he bumps their noses together gently, and presses soft kisses next to his lips, across his cheek, to his temple, and then rests their heads together. Merlin can feel his breath caress his ear as he whispers, “I _have_ missed you, Merlin. My heart. Every day.”

Merlin forces his hand to let go of Arthur’s shirt, tries once to smooth out the wrinkles he’s left, and gives up to reach for Arthur again. He feels very bold when he pushes his fingers through Arthur’s hair, but _he_ had certainly liked it when the prince had pet _his_ hair earlier. Arthur seems to enjoy it as well, closing his eyes and sighing against Merlin’s skin. Arthur exhales one big breath before he drags his head low, presses another kiss to Merlin’s jaw, then his neck, but then pulls away.

“No, no,” Merlin complains, and pulls him back in again. It’s harder to kiss Arthur when they’re both smiling, but that’s alright too. Suddenly Arthur’s arms are around his waist, and he’s lifting Merlin up with a joyous laugh, giving him a spin. Merlin can’t help but respond, he own laughter weak from breathlessness as Arthur squeezes him too tightly.

“Oi,” he hits Arthur’s shoulders, feet kicking uselessly. “Let me down - I can’t breathe, prat!”

“Yet you still have the strength to complain,” Arthur sets him down, beaming at him.

“Always,” Merlin insists. Then he feels very foolish, because once more he doesn’t have a thing to say, can only stare at the way Arthur’s lips look very red, and marvel that they have been made so by _Merlin._ Because they _kissed_ one another _._ He reaches out a finger to trace the path of Arthur’s bottom lip, because he is allowed to do that now.

“Dear Gods,” Arthur shuts his eyes and takes a step backwards.

Merlin takes a step forwards, finding himself feeling very mischievous once again.

“Merlin,” Arthur begins. Tries to look serious, but fails.

“Arthur,” Merlin copies him, and steps forwards so they are pressed against each other again.

“There are things we must discuss,” he uses his prince voice, tilts his chin up imperiously.

“Like what?” Merlin asks, kissing him where he has exposed the line of his neck, because _he is allowed to do that now._

There is the familiar sound of guards making their way past Arthur’s chambers on patrol, and a wash of panic brings Merlin’s giddy high back down to earth. No one tries to enter, but the reality of things sets back in despite it.

Arthur sighs, and strokes a hand down his arm as he pushes for Merlin to sit on the bed. Arthur climbs in after him and draws the curtains shut, but Merlin suspects it’s just to give a little peace of mind rather than anything licentious.

And it is nice to sit side by side with Arthur with the curtains drawn, like their own little world. His magic slips away from him again and makes stars float through the air, and then there are berries and roses that make him blush and feel somehow even more obvious than the kissing had.

Arthur unhesitatingly takes a strawberry and pops it in his mouth. He’s still chewing when he smiles at Merlin, “You _did_ miss me, didn’t you?” And he seems so pleased with it that Merlin can’t find it in him to tease him.

“I tried to come to you before, but you were always gone,” he replies.

“I haven’t been at the castle much.”

Merlin hesitates. He doesn’t want to think about such things, but it is true they have little time. “Has the king been very upset?”

Arthur laughs without humor.

“That bad?”

“He’s still furious. Obsessed. His decisions are… irrational to me, and there have been more burnings and beheadings than there have been since the purge. Camelot is in unrest,” Arthur lays down, and folds his hands over his ribs while he watches Merlin’s stars spin over his head.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin puts his head on Arthur’s sternum, and they shuffle until they lay comfortable against each other.

“I brought some druids home,” he says. “I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“I am,” Merlin smiles even though Arthur can’t see him. “I helped a farmer deliver a lamb with magic, and he gave us some honey for it. It was nice.”

“That is nice,” Arthur hums. “Do you remember Mary, at the tavern? The Clurichaun tossed some men out on their ears when they tried to shake her down for coin.”

“I learned how to turn into an otter, and I swam in the sea for hours.”

“Lancelot has been invaluable, he and Gaius have made a sort of friendship - and I know they are getting people out of Camelot when rumors of magic start. I don’t ask too much, so I can give nothing away to my father.”

“He should be a knight. Of all men,” Merlin says.

“I know,” Arthur agrees. “When I am king he will be.”

Merlin wants to ask when he will be king, but Arthur’s father might have to die for that to happen. He doesn’t think Uther deserves any mercy, but he can’t seem to wish for anything that would hurt Arthur, either.

“You’ll be a good king,” he says instead.

“But how many will die before then?” Arthur is the one to wonder out loud.

“Is… is there a way for you to become king sooner?”

“Patricide would do it, but it might be a rough start to ruling,” Arthur scoffs. “I do not want to become a murder to become king, Merlin.”

“Besides that, I meant,” Merlin pinches him and Arthur slaps at his wrist without force. When he catches it he brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss to his pulse.

“I’ve been trying to think of one,” Arthur confides. It’s no more treasonous than anything else lately Merlin guesses. “If I were regent-” he sighs. “I have no proof that he’s unable to rule, and people would just think I was grabbing for his throne. I might think he is wrong, but he is still king, and his is still within his right mind.”

“Morgana really hates him,” Merlin whispers.

“I imagine she does. Sometimes I-well. I wish I understood why the purge happened.” Arthur looked down at Merlin, frowning, “You don’t know, do you?”

He shook his head. “Gaius said he couldn’t tell me when I asked.”

“I know people have used magic poorly in the past, long before even my father was king. But its complete absence harms as well. We’ve no defence against malicious magical creatures or sorcerers who would do-”

“I know,” Merlin shushes him. “I know. I would stay and help you, you know that.”

“You can’t,” he says plainly. “Even if no one saw you cast magic, you’ve been missing since then, and people saw you with Gwen and gone the next moment. Most people think Morgana stole you both away to serve her.”

“Oh, pretty much,” Merlin agrees. “She’s very bossy, just like you.”

Arthur snorts deeply and unflatteringly, jostling Merlin from where his cheek still rests on his chest and making him laugh.

“What should I do, though?” Merlin asks. “What would _you_ have me do?”

“I would have you stay happy and safe.”

Maybe that was the honest truth, but it displeased him to hear it. Merlin wanted to help, not to sit idle - and Morgana would never stand for it either.

“I’m trying to learn more magic, like you said before.”

“What?”

“I want to be able to fight, I want to help you!” Merlin pushed up on his elbows, looking down at Arthur from only a handbreadth away. “You can’t just tell me to do nothing. I haven’t been sure what you’d want me to do, but I’ve been trying to learn what I can.”

Arthur blinks at him, taken aback. “I told you, Merlin, that I would never force you to fight for me-”

“And I told you I would anyway, don’t you remember?”

“I do, of course I do. But I would not hold you to it, not when you are finally free, and able to use your magic without the threat of _death_ , Merlin. Aren’t you happy, a little?”

“I’m happier with you! Always, and I will tell you as many times as it takes to get it through your thick head.” He flops back down and snuggles into Arthur’s chest aggressively.

“Well,” Arthur says dumbly, “that’s alright then.”

“That’s what you said last time, do you believe me now?”

“I believe you,” Arthur says, and if there is a note of awe in his voice Merlin is kind enough not to point it out. “We will figure it out, Merlin,” he coughs lightly, as if embarrassed, “my heart. Together”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 60k in and they finally kiss looool sorry


	16. Merlin Fights Self Doubt

Merlin had taken to spending a lot of his waking time staring into the middle distance vapidly while Morgana and Gwen muttered behind their hands and tittered at him.

He hadn’t _told_ them outright that Arthur had kissed him, but they both seemed to have some instinctive understanding of it anyway. Perhaps he was just that painfully obvious.

Probably. He seemed to be able to think of little else lately.

It had just been so lovely, that’s all. To be kissed. To be kissed by _Arthur_ , who was very handsome and only a prat very occasionally now and also had nice shoulders. Not that Merlin had given much thought to it. And if he had who could blame him?

He sighed and rested his head on his knees, feeling very fond, and Morgana tutted from where she sat across from him.

Gwen smiled at him though, bless her. She had been very happy to receive word about Lancelot, so it’s not like she could throw stones. Even Morgana’s ribbing was gentle. It was nice they were happy for him.

Yet even so, they were all of them a little restless. Waiting.

Morgana had taken lead on their aimless path when he returned, and brought them northward. She had woken one day, clear eyed and intense, and insisted that _this_ was the way they shall go.

The small ship they had taken from Cornwall into Gawant had taught Merlin one thing only, and that was that he would have prefered to swim the whole length of the journey as an otter - or as a mouse - rather than sail again. And then just as abruptly one day she insisted they wait right where they were, that someone was coming to find them. With the memory of Gwaine fresh in mind it was with an easy acquiescence that Merlin and Gwen agreed. They hadn’t stayed in one place for so long in a while - three nights in the same camp so far. They were as close to Camelot as they had been since they left, as well, which made them all a touch uneasy.

Too close to Camelot and on too busy a road to cast much magic, and so the days passed slowly to him. He was unwilling to leave them to wait by themselves just because of his antsy magic - or even more selfishly because his shoulder blades itched with the urge to fly back to Arthur.

More than once travelers and merchants had passed them on the road, some passing swiftly, some stopping to share their fire for a rest, but watching Morgana told him that none of them were who they were awaiting.

In the end it didn’t matter, as he would have recognized her without having anyone to watch for clues. He would likely never forget her entirely, even though it had been years.

Morgause.

It was dusk when she walked boldly up to them, her stride sure and her dark eyes shining with joy. Her step was light on the grass, even in armor. She looked mostly unchanged other than her expression - her disdain when she had looked at Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

Merlin stood abruptly, Morgana and Gwen following him. He wasn’t sure what to feel now - she had been right, after all, even if she had been a bit harsh. His hands twitched, uncertain. Morgana’s face was one of happy anticipation, but Gwen was just as lost as he was.

“I have sought you ever since I heard of your escape,” Morgause said, “but you travel quickly, and hide well.” There is a note of pride in her voice. “Sister,” she says warmly. “I have so much to speak of with you.”

“Sister?” He finds himself gasping, shoving himself into a private moment. He slaps a hand over his mouth and Morgana merely laughs at him, which seems to be all it takes for Morgause to forgive him of her glare.

“I dreamed of this,” Morgana says in awe, “I _dreamed_ of this, but I feared it wasn’t true. Gwen, Merlin, I have a sister,” she pulls them close to her, “I have a sister!”

“My Lady,” Gwen says wetly, even though she hasn’t called Morgana such in months, shocked back into old habits. “I’m so happy for you!”

“But I don’t even know your name, no dream told me that,” Morgana wipes delicately at her eyes, sniffling through her wide smile, “you must tell me.”

“Morgause,” Merlin says.

Both sisters turn and look at him in such synchronization and likeness that it is easy to believe they share blood. He feels pinned in place and leans into Gwen a little more.

“We’ve met once before, although I’m sure I gave you no cause to remember me. At Howden, over two years ago now.” Merlin swallows. He certainly remembered her.

She narrows her eyes at him in consideration.

“The boy in Howden,” she sounds out, “who followed the knight to the river like a puppy?”

“Yes,” he admits. He had, after all.

“That does sound like you,” Gwen murmurs to him.

“A strange journey, I’m sure, from following a knight into following a sorceress.” It is still odd to hear out loud, no matter how it is not a secret anymore by now. The flight of the king’s ward and her magic had spread even faster than rumors usually do. Her eyes leave him quickly though, back to a beaming Morgana. Morgause’s face softens even further. “I tried to reach out to you, did you hear me?”

“I must have,” Morgana answered. “If only in my dreams - I knew you were coming! Please, sit with us, we’ll eat together, and we can speak. I have so many questions. You have magic as well, don’t you?” Before Morgause can answer Morgana steams ahead. “Of course you do. Forgive me, I find myself overwhelmed.”

“I can only imagine. I am so sorry you have been alone with this, it should not be so.”

Morgana hasn’t stopped smiling, but now she turns it on Merlin, a question in it. He shrugs a shoulder at her. It still makes him squirm to divulge his magic, but this is Morgana’s sister, the one they have been waiting for. Who had stood up to a knight and told them an unpleasant truth bravely. If they intend to learn from each other, she’ll have to know. Morgana cocks her head at him until he finally nods.

“I wasn’t alone though, I had Gwen, and Merlin, my dear friends. It was Merlin who saved us from Uther,” she admits, “not me. I was in irons, and I barely knew a thing about magic. I’d be dead if not for him.”

Morgause closes her eyes. “I owe you my thanks then,” she tells him. “I could not have withstood it, to lose you before we could even meet. Camelot is no place for magic any longer, and I could not come to you - but know my heart was always with you. I would have taken you from that wretched man if I could have.”

Gwen always had a better sense of things than Merlin did, he thought, and was grateful for it once more. She pulled at his elbow and tried to communicate something to him with her eyebrows. He blinked at her until she spoke, “Here, why don’t the two of us gather some more firewood. We would give you some time together,” she tugged him behind her and steered him towards the treeline, before stopping again to smile softly at Morgana wordlessly. When she started walking again Merlin trotted after her obediently.

“We’re not really gathering firewood, are we?” Merlin asked, looking over his shoulder where two figures were visible, bent together near the campfire.

“Not really, no,” Gwen smiles at him. “I just thought they might like a moment. A _sister_ ,” she says in disbelief. “And you’ve even met her, it’s like something out of a bard’s song.”

Despite all her smiles, she still seems a little wistful to him. The walk side by side in the woods, the changing leaves looking especially vibrant and golden in the setting sun. It’s not until they are well away from the camp that he dares speak again.

“Gwen, are you alright?”

Her smile crumbles.

“It’s wonderful, it is. I’m so happy for her.” Her eyes well with unshed tears. “I’m a terrible friend.”

“One thing you are not, Gwen, is a terrible friend,” he protests. “I can think of no finer friend to have in the whole of the five kingdoms.”

“I’m not,” she insists, “a good friend wouldn’t be so bitterly jealous.”

“Because-” he starts before he can help himself. He can’t bring himself to finish though. Because Gwen has no family left.

“Because she has a family, because _her_ sibling returned to her.” She turns away from him and hides her face. “It’s terrible of me. Uther is no sort of father at all. I was lucky to have had a father as kind as I did, and my brother.”

“Your brother?” Merlin asks. He hadn’t even known. Maybe _Merlin_ was the terrible friend, constantly with his head in the clouds. Why had she never said?

“I don’t even know if he has heard word that our father is dead,” her voice wobbles. “Of the two of us I was always more interested in the forge - he wanted to go on adventures. So he did, and he has stayed gone. For so long, Merlin. And Morgana never had a sister at all, and I am a horrible person for being jealous over it now.”

“You aren’t horrible! You’ve lost your father, Gwen, and it was not peaceful. You are allowed to want your brother. I was always jealous, too,” he offers eventually, “of the big families in Ealdor. They had more people to feed, but I didn’t care about that, I just wanted someone to play with. So be careful of who you are calling horrible.”

She laughs at him, rolling her eyes when she sees his overly serious expression.

“See,” he says, “you’d never call me names for that, don’t call yourself anything over it either.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” she says, but he knows nothing is solved so easily.

“Do you want to tell me about your brother?” He is hesitant to ask.

“I don’t talk about him much now,” she begins, “but we were very close when we were little. He’s older, but not by a lot. More interested in fighting with swords than in making them. Are you sure you want to listen to me prattle on?”

“I’m very sure,” he says firmly.

They speak lowly as they walk through the woods, past when the sun has set, and Merlin makes a light for them even though he’s not supposed to be doing magic near the road. He gasps in silly shock when Gwen reveals she used to have a crush on Leon as a girl.

“He was very tall! And older than me. I thought him to be very refined.” She defends herself.

“He’s still very tall,” Merlin pokes her. “Taller than Lancelot, I should think. And still older, too, since that's how time works.”

“Oh hush,” she chides him without heat, linking their arms together, just like how they used to stroll in the market together. “Do you think Lancelot misses me?”

“He does, I’m certain of it. He used to make the most ridiculous eyes after you, like a big cow.” That’s probably not very romantic. He makes a moonstruck face at her, and Gwen is laughing again though, so it’s probably fine. “Arthur said he would make him a knight when he is king. He deserves it.”

Gwen looks as proud as if she had been awarded a knighthood herself. “He does,” she agrees. “And Arthur, he was well?”

He blushes, which he knows full well was her intention. He clears his throat. “He was,” Merlin says, feeling caught out somehow. Gwen looks entirely too knowing.

“You still want to go back, then?”

“I do,” he says, “I like being out here, and learning magic. Very much. But I miss Arthur even more. What about you? If Uther croaks tomorrow would you go back?” He makes a noise like a frog dying and Gwen makes a shocked snort in laughter, looking around like Uther might just lunge out from behind a tree to behead them.

“I might. I don’t think I’m cut out for adventuring forever. I miss having a home, and my friends. But Camelot has many bad memories now as well. I fear… well, I’m not very useful, am I? If I go back what will I even do? No lady to serve, and out here I have no magic. I just trail behind you. I’ve enjoyed it, please understand, but what good am I? You’re both so amazing, and now Morgana’s _sister_ is here, and she has magic too. I’m just waiting for the day you both realize-”

The words hit him like a blow. “Oh Gwen, no,” he interrupts her seriously, “that’s not true at all. You don’t need magic to be worth something. You must know that. You must.” He stops where he stands and tugs her to look at him. “You are one of the most wonderful people, my most favorite people - in the whole world. Magic or no. You’re so kind, and generous, and capable. Whenever I didn’t know something I always came to you - because when I was all alone in Camelot you were the one who welcomed me. I wish I knew the words to make you believe me. There’s so much more to you than you seem to think.”

“Merlin, I-” she sniffs, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just cry and complain all the night away.”

“You can cry all you want to! I’m just sorry if I’ve ever made you feel that way.”

“No _I’m_ sorry, of course you haven’t!”

“You’re both sorry,” Morgana interrupts them, but her eyes are wet too, “and you’ve both been missing for hours! Gwen, oh Gwen,” and then she’s hugging them both as well, and everything is very wet.

Morgause trails behind Morgana and looks a bit like she didn’t know what she was getting into, which Merlin thinks is fair.

“We don’t usually cry this much,” he tells her through a faceful of curly hair, but from her expression he’s not sure if she believes him.

***

The Isle of the Blessed is in decay.

Morgause had been extolling its virtues and beauties of old the entire journey there. She had been younger when she first came, when it had been in the height of its power - and had warned them that it was not much of anything to look at anymore. He is still surprised to see exactly how far it has fallen. It looks as though centuries have passed, not twenty years.

A dark haired woman waits for them, and Merlin has to nearly bite his tongue in half to not make a peep when he is introduced to Nimueh.

He remembers the name, and urgently wants to hop back on the little boat that had taken them here, despite the seasickness. If he looks upset hopefully they will just attribute it to that. Gwen rubs his back soothingly.

He wonders if he would have found her strange if not for Gaius’s warning. She is very pretty, and has been welcoming. Yet a shiver runs down his spine as his feet carry him further into the ruins.

The entire isle makes his magic churn, and not pleasantly. He would have thought it would feel peaceful and saturated with life, more like the land that the druids nurtured, but these walls offered him no comfort.

He seems to be the only one to think so, however. Morgana and Gwen are in appropriate awe and sorrow for it as they are shown around and told stories. He does not like the way that Nimueh’s eyes follow them.

They are offered rest, they are offered food, they are offered _lessons._

Merlin and Morgana learn to scry, and it is the first time she learns something quicker than he does. She sticks her tongue out at him and lords it over him all night. It seems Morgana’s skills lie in farsight, which Merlin thinks is amazing and useful. His earnest praise of her only provokes her further.

“It’s no fun to tease you if you’re all decent about it,” she complains.

“You’re missing Arthur is what it is,” he tells her bluntly, “competitive children, both of you! Rest assured you are better at magic than he is.”

“That’s true,” she agrees, looking cheered.

Nimueh is talented at hydromancy. She summons a little rain cloud, and splits the water it pours into many interweaving paths, a complicated knot demonstrating her skill.

“You could split a river the same way,” she says, “if you had the strength for it. Divert a flood to save a village.”

Everyone is suitably impressed, and even he has to admit that would be useful. He is still reluctant to learn much of anything from Nimueh, but she has yet to give any reason he can name for his doubt. He twists water through the air, and it’s as easy as anything. Freezes it to ice and back again while Nimueh watches, Gwen clapping for him and Morgana playfully elbowing his ribs until he drops it and it splashes on their feet.

There are some lessons that Merlin is not there for - secrets between priestesses, he is told. He is fine with it other than leaving Morgana alone. He and Gwen wander the empty isle together, and Merlin tries not to burden her with his worries. Nimueh has been gentle with Gwen.

If Merlin finds it belittling maybe it’s just his own notions. Gwen has not complained to him, but he worries that being the only person on this isle without magic has made her afraid to speak up for herself.

He cannot forget Gaius’s warning, that Nimueh is dangerous.

He isn’t quite sure why or when it started, but he has begun to dread each new day. They seem to bleed into each other until he doesn’t know how much time has passed. Samhain approaches, he thinks, but the grey fog here never seems to lift, and he is not sure. Morgause has shown kindness, but she also shows her sharpness and her temper at times. She feels sincere in a way that Nimueh, who is only ever pleasant, does not.

There are bloodstains on an altar, and Merlin guides Gwen away from it before she sees. He wants to believe it is animal blood, but there is an aura of memory and shade in the air around it that forces him to admit otherwise.

It is far past time for them to leave, but he is not sure how to convince Morgana. It has barely been a month, and she has only just reunited with Morgause, who even Merlin has come to grudgingly like. She’s brash and unapologetic, but devoted wholly towards restoring magic and to Morgana. He thinks she actually likes him a bit as well, even though she’s difficult to read.

And they _are_ learning, more than they ever could on the road. Maybe Morgause would be convinced to come with them?

_Morgana,_ he whispers to her silently that night, once everyone has parted ways to sleep.

She hums at him and squints in the low light. _What is it?_

_Have your dreams told you anything about this place?_

It is a strange sensation to be connected to another thinking mind like this, but he can feel her mulling it over. _No, I have not dreamed at all since arriving._

 _Isn’t it strange?_ He asks. _I… don’t trust Nimueh. I don’t trust her intentions. Gaius said that she is an enemy of Camelot._

 _So am I,_ Morgana thinks wryly at him. _So are you._

He rolls his eyes in the dark.

 _I don’t mean like that. And I don’t like how she treats Gwen_. He can feel her agree with him even if she doesn’t say so. _Would it hurt to ask Morgause to come with us? To try?_

 _There is so much to learn here still,_ she argues.

Without meaning to his mind conjures the bloody altar. The endless walks through the grey mists, and the feeling of piercing dread that haunts him lately. He cannot stop the wellspring of emotion from spilling over to her, begging. Where they connect he can feel her waver. She trusts his instincts, even if she’d prefer him to be wrong.

 _I’m sorry_ , he apologizes. _But I do not think this place means us well._

 _I will speak to Morgause,_ she offers. _And I will think on your words, I promise._

Merlin settles to an uneasy sleep.

Morgause is glaring at him when he wakes, her face twisted into a frown. Ugh. He supposes Morgana didn’t wait to speak to her.

“Why are you so determined to hate it here?” She asks him bluntly. “It is true that it is not beautiful any longer, but it is not the fault of either Nimueh or myself.”

“I’m not determined to hate it here,” he protests, but she merely pulls back with a huff of disbelief. “I’m _not._ I just-” He stops himself. She had cornered him as soon as he woke to startle him into giving something away, he’s sure. He doesn’t want to admit to her that it is Nimueh he has taken issue with, afraid that it will sour her on him once again.

“Just what?” She pushes him.

“It feels dangerous here,” he says. “Unwelcoming. I’ve been around old magic before, and it didn’t feel like this.”

“If it is unwelcoming it is because it has been made so. By Uth-”

“That is not what I mean,” Merlin rudely stops her. “Something in the _magic_ is-is rotten, and has been. You were the one who spoke to us of balance so long ago, can’t you feel it? It’s like winter without spring here.” She clenches her jaw at him, as stubborn as unwilling to bend as he would have feared. This is why he didn’t want to have this conversation with her. “The druids healed the land where they pass with their magic, it was restored and whole, but here…” He waves an arm out.

“You do not know of what you speak. You and the druids both hold loyalty to a kingdom that deserves none of it. Are we not your people?” She gestures to herself, and in the distance where he can see Nimueh and Morgana eating together, Gwen tending the fire. It only makes him more resolved.

“You are, and Morgana, and Gwen as well! And I don’t think it’s safe here for us, and I won’t hold my tongue about it to spare your feelings.” He moves to stand up, but she shoves him back down. He can see Morgana look their way, and rise.

“Do you think Morgana has been silent about her life in Camelot to me? I know now who that knight was, your prince. I think it is merely the fancies of a boy in love that makes you so restless now, so eager to leave. What has he done to ensure your loyalty? What promises could he have made you that are worth hiding who you are forever, to keep your people banished and dying?”

“I’m not hiding anything from him,” Merlin protests.

“Then he knows of your magic?” She is disbelieving.

“ _Yes_ ,” he shouts at her. “He’s known for ages!” Morgause’s face slackens in surprise as she pulls away from him. “Morgana forget to tell you that part?” He finally gets to his feet.

“It hadn’t come up yet,” Morgana says as she approaches, Nimueh and Gwen at her heels. “We haven’t talked about Arthur much. Far more about Uther.”

“Who Arthur is nothing like,” Merlin stresses, “he’s going to return magic to Camelot.”

“He’s told you this?” Nimueh asks him, voice soft. “All magic?”

Merlin doesn’t want to answer her. He doesn’t want to speak of this at all - he wishes that he had just smuggled Morgana and Gwen out somehow before Morgause ever opened her mouth.

“Yes,” he grits out. “Peaceful magic,” he clarifies.

“That’s what they do, though,” she continues, “they make promises and then break them. Uther welcomed magic that suited him as well. Until he didn’t.” Her blue eyes look at him with pity.

“He is _not_ his father,” Merlin repeats himself. “And you do him too little credit.”

“Perhaps,” she smiles at him, a mere tug on the corners of her lips. She scans the ruins around them, deciding something. “Come with me, I would tell you about Uther Pendragon.”

She leads them farther into the isle than any of Gwen and his walks have taken them, through mossy and crumbling stone, passing ragged banners embroidered elaborately with a blood red tree. Its branches reach up as the roots reach into the earth below, and the black cloth is tattered with age. Nimueh is reverent when she brings them through a gateway that leads them to what once must have been a grand garden.

A spring of water is stagnant and has nearly dried, circling a silhouette of a tree. As the mists part before Nimueh’s raised hand, it comes into greater focus - a rowan tree, petrified. It is the shadow of something familiar to him, and the hair on his arms raises. An unmistakable mirror image to the tree he brought to full life from the ashes of their fire, as a gift for Arthur. His back pulls straight and he clenches his hands, alarmed.

“This used to be the heart of the isle, of the old religion. Of gods and magic itself. No one but the highest order ever laid eyes upon it.” She looks back at them, lets her eyes dip over Gwen. “Feel fortunate to see it, even though it is dead. Look upon what Uther Pendragon has done, and I will tell you why. But first, tell me what is taught in Camelot of the purge?”

The tree doesn’t feel like much of anything. He reaches out to it, but there is nothing there. No magic, and not even the upsetting wrongness that he feels on the rest of the isle, just a smooth normality - as if this place is nothing special at all. It’s just… gone. He swallows guiltily and drags his eyes away from the dead tree with difficulty. What did he do? It’s hard to focus on Nimueh now. In the distance he hears Morgana answer and Nimueh laugh lightly in return.

“The truth of things is rooted in Uther’s greed. For power, for control, to be remembered - a legacy. For his name to be carried forward. He desired a son.” _Arthur?_ He thinks. Nimueh smiles indulgently at him. “To inherit his kingdom and his wealth, to raise in his image. Ygraine, as beautiful and as beloved as she was, could not provide him with one. Uther was not used to being denied anything in those days, and so he came to me.”

“You knew them both?” Morgana asks breathlessly.

“Of course. I was Uther’s Court Sorceress.” She pauses for them to gasp in a way Merlin finds obnoxious. “Magic was loved then, for as long as it served his use. He asked me for aid, and I gave it to him. I told him there would be a cost, that the balance would demand it, but he was arrogant. Or perhaps he did not care who paid it, thinking it would never be himself. Or Ygraine. And yet fate decided it would be she who died in order for the child to live. And in Uther’s fury so too did every magic user in his kingdom. All for a son.”

Morgana takes a horrified breath next to him. He should be horrified too, or angry, he thinks. If this is the truth. Angry that so much harm has come to the kingdom and to its people due to the arrogance of one man - and yet this feels like only half a story to him. His mind is spinning and numb, but Nimueh continues.

“Uther needs to be stopped. You have witnessed his cruelties yourselves, and so you must understand that his bloodshed will not cease. His line needs to end, only with that will magic return to where it belongs again. He only curdles the land further in his rage and blindness.”

“But Arthur doesn’t.” Merlin interrupts her again, and he sees her expression harden for the first time. “Why should he have to die to atone for Uther’s sins?”

“You are loyal to him, aren’t you?” She asks, shaking her head, dark braids swaying. “You are young, and you believe yourself in love. But he will prove himself to be his father’s son - no man would give up his own power to allow magic dominion in his place.”

“Dominion?” Merlin balks at her. “Why should magic rule over people?”

“Magic is the lifeblood that flows through the earth itself,” Nimueh looks at him as though he is the mad one here, “and it is owed fealty. It is only right for men to serve it, not to subjugate it.”

He has been on a knife’s edge for the entire length of their stay here and perhaps that is why he loses his temper now. “Are you sure you don’t just mean to serve _you_? Are we just ignoring that there is a wide swath of space between ‘ruling over all men’ and ‘being purged from existence’? You’d have us exchange one tyrant for another - magical superiority instead of Uther’s ban! You want to know why I’m loyal to Arthur? Because he’s learned it doesn’t matter if someone has magic or not. When I told him Morgana had magic all he had to say about it was that it didn’t change anything, that she was still his sister. If she didn’t have a single bit of magic in her he still would have saved her from that dungeon because that’s not what makes her worth saving! Same for Gwen, same for me - and same for all his people!”

Morgause’s expression wavers, her love for Morgana runs deeply already, but Nimueh merely sustains her blank look of pity.

“I wish I could believe you.” She says evenly.

“You can though,” Morgana implores. “Arthur did aid us. I didn’t believe it easily at first either, but I was wrong.”

“Perhaps he takes more after Ygraine,” Morgause adds quietly, offering a small smile to her sister.

There is a moment where upon hearing the name Nimueh’s air seems to turn sorrowful, and Merlin seises upon it desperately.

“He gave me her sigil, before we had to flee, does that not prove his sincerity to you? Please, believe me - there is no need for Arthur to bear your anger.”

Nimueh takes a shuddering breath in. “Ygraine was a dear friend. Uther lost his mind at her loss. But maybe not even Uther could erase all of her goodness. Show me? I’d know her mark anywhere.”

It is a tense walk through the isle and back to their things, silent and awkward. He looks back over his shoulder as the tree is consumed by the mists again, uncertain of what it means.

Merlin has no fond feelings for either Uther or Nimueh, but he cannot blame her one bit for her anger at him. The suffering and betrayal she had endured was unfathomable, and maybe that is what has made her so unnerving to him. He doesn’t doubt she believes what she says, but he is equally as sure her desire for vengeance runs deeper than she would have them know. He still doesn’t trust her, but if any love remains in her he must try and reach it, if only to rid Arthur of a dangerous enemy. This place wears him thin.

He fumbles with his bag clumily from his nerves, digging out the precious sigil. He unwraps it from the cloth and runs his thumb along the curved edge of it before showing it to Nimueh. Her face is grave and her eyes are wet when she takes it from him. She looks upon it for a stretch of time, traces her fingers around the dove, and as if it is too painful to hold abruptly offers it back to him.

“I must think,” she says with finality. “Tonight Samhain will begin. A night of remembrance for me. Please, stay until morning and we will speak further.”

Merlin clutches the sigil to his chest and gives her a tight nod.

He can manage one more night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nimueh: *Is rude to Gwen*  
> Merlin: *Kill Bill sirens*


	17. Arthur Fights to Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show level violence this time!

Arthur has missed Merlin sorely since he had last laid eyes on him, watching him fly away and then a long quiet time afterwards.

Missed the way he could make Arthur laugh so easily, how much lighter the weight of his responsibilities sat upon him when Merlin was by his side, missed hearing his brisk and clumsy footsteps in his chambers.

Before he had kissed Merlin he had been very fervently resolved to suffer his feelings silently. The sorcerer had freedom at his fingertips now, and Arthur had prepared himself. He would not have resented him if the call of it was too strong. Camelot had little to offer him - _Arthur_ had little to offer him - but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Merlin had looked at him and his eyes had been so blue and shining, and he had seemed to miss Arthur just as much.

The honesty of it made him feel vulnerable in a way that was unfamiliar. To bear his heart openly was somehow more terrifying than any tourney, but the reward was greater as well.

He could not regret it in the slightest. Merlin had said that he was happier with Arthur, after all. If he closed his eyes he could still hear his laugh as Arthur lifted him, or the sound of the sigh he made when they had kissed, still feel Merlin’s long fingers clenched around his tunic, pulling him in.

Arthur was happier with Merlin, too.

But he misses him now for far more practical reasons. He hunts a black dog. It has been seen again and again on the road all the way from the darkling woods, past the great lake, and to the barrow mound at Willowdale. The man who had brought word of this suffered a bite that would not close, no matter what ointments or bandages Gaius applied. Lancelot had been there as well while Gaius told them both that he feared the veil grew thinner as Samhain approaches - that this was an omen. A creature of magic called a Barghest.

Arthur doubts strongly that he is wrong. Merlin’s magic would certainly be handy now, or his sharp sight from the air.

He is accompanied by a handful of his knights, as well as Lancelot and even Gwaine, both of them unwilling to be left behind. He still doesn’t quite understand Gwaine, or why he lingers in Camelot when he detests it so - but he has a strong sword arm, the equal to any of his knights. They keep their torches lit even while the sun still hovers lowly. They have trod this path for a week now with only the eerie sound of distant howls to give them direction. It is impossible to track a beast that leaves no trail, no footprints, no broken branches, no hunting of its own. The villagers at Willowdale seem harrowed and afraid, which combined with Arthur’s grim mood makes their procession a solemn one. Tonight is Samhain, and in his bones he knows that if something is to happen it will be this night.

There will be feasting and celebrations back in the warm safety of the castle, but the houses of Willowdale are shut up tightly. A few men come to meet him as they patrol through the village, armed with whatever means they are able - pitchforks and an axe or two for the most part.

“Leon,” one man says in astonishment, breaking out of the small crowd.

“Elyan? It can’t be, how have you come to be here?” His friend dismounts to greet this newcomer warmly.

“I have been making way to Camelot ever since I heard word of, well. Gwen had entered the Lady Morgana’s service before I left - tell me, do you know any news of her?” He clasps Leon’s elbow imploringly. He looks a bit like Gwen, Arthur thinks, and it slides into place that of course this must be her brother that Leon had spoken to him of.

Leon looks back at him for a moment before answering sadly. “I do not, but I believe she is safe. She was very loved by all, including Lady Morgana.”

Elyan nods, unhappy and disbelieving. A huge man claps a hand down on Elyan’s back.

“Here. This is Percival,” he is introduced, “we’ve been making our way to Camelot together.” Percival has height even on Leon, and his consoling pat on Elyan’s back sends him forward a step with the weight of it. “When we stopped here and heard they were suffering we thought we might help. The damndest thing though, I cannot track this beast at all.”

“No,” Leon agrees, “we do not believe it is a normal creature. You might be better off staying indoors tonight.”

Elyan’s expression reveals what he thinks of that.

“Sire,” Leon turns to him, “allow me to introduce you to Elyan, I have known him since I was a child. Has your swordwork gotten better since then?” He teases his old friend lightly.

“Maybe a bit,” Elyan answers with a knowing smirk before making an unpracticed bow towards Arthur. His expression is stoic with an edge of nervous energy that he cannot entirely hide as he looks upon him. Arthur can only imagine what he must think of the royal family. He should find a moment to tell him Gwen is safe. He could not bear to let him go on thinking she might be dead or enslaved. “Your highness. I would hunt with you,” he offers simply.

“You are most welcome,” Arthur nods at him, “you can’t be worse company than Gwaine.”

“Hey, thanks very much!” He hears from behind him, but he does not look.

“Thank you,” Elyan smiles at him, maybe a bit less worried than he had seemed before.

Arthur casts his eyes around the village again. Fires have been lit, and he has the suspicion that a few of the more able-bodied men will also attempt to follow them when they circle back towards the castle in their search once more. Perhaps doubly so now that Elyan and Percival have joined with them.

“To me!” he calls out to his men. “Keep your torches lit, and stay quiet - no chatter. Listen well for its baying, it is the only method we have of tracking it until we lay sight upon it. Pellinore, Oswald, take the wedge positions. Let tonight be the end of this.” He turns Llamrei back to the road, hearing nothing but the hoofbeats of horses and footsteps of men following him.

The air is chill and the moon is high, partially hidden by a dark, heavy cloud. There is little breeze, but every time it stirs the leaves he looks to the noise and can swear he sees a shadow in the corner of his eye. It is an unsettling journey, and a slow one with their caution. Their torchlight casts flickering shapes along the roots of the trees, but no dog appears.

The sun creeps lower in the sky as they make their way, casting the last remains of light on a low fog. It isn’t until they near the barrow that Arthur cants his head and listens deeply, a sharp bark ringing faintly in the distance. He holds up his hand to stop his men and gestures to his ear. It sounds again, not a figment.

At the foot of the mound not even Llamrei will continue, the horses digging in their hooves in their distress. He dismounts quickly, the riot the dog is raising is loud now, and they must be close. He sends Llamrei back towards the village with a slap to her rump. Leon lights a torch and passes it to him, and they make their way further on foot.

A hand grabs him and he very nearly cuts it off. Gwaine doesn’t even appear to notice, eyes fixed into the distance.

“Look,” he whispers. “A man?”

And it’s true, through the fog Arthur can just begin to make out the silhouette of a figure. With torchlight behind him he can only make out the shape, otherwise just a black shadow, but his instincts say this is no normal man. While someone might be out to pay respects or to speak to their ancestors on Samhain, certainly no one of Willowdale would do so now. Arthur cannot shake the chill that runs down his spine.

As they come closer he becomes no more distinct, a strange umbra pulling inwards. The dog is frolicking at his heels when he turns to them. He is no faster than any normal man, and he wields no sword, but the mists around his feet do not disturb as he walks through them, as if he is not even there.

Pellinore places himself in front of him as he approaches, and raises the torch. The firelight seems to give him pause, and under his roughspun black hood Arthur can see a face that is far in decomposition. Pellinore releases a gasp of alarm but recovers quickly to strike with his sword, only for it to pass through the corpse as if it were made of smoke.

The dog breaks away and lunges for Pellinore, and when it does so the wraith steps forward to drag a hand through his knight’s chest. His armor is intact, but he falls down in a limp heap - cold and colorless in death.

Arthur lunges forward with his torch and a shout, pushing them backward, but it is too late.

“The fire!” He shouts, and brings his torch to the front of him. The wraith turns away and with seemingly little interest towards them continues down the path leading to Willowdale. “Do not let it reach the village!”

The torchlight for all that it slows the creature it does not stop it, and it is a dangerous task to herd it away from the village. No wound from any weapon will land upon it, and one of the village men breaks away in fear when his pitchfork passes straight through once more.

“Go, warn them,” Arthur commands him. “If it can pass through walls it may be safer to flee, they might be trapped in their houses - _go!”_ He hopes that is the right choice, but there is no time to consider it deeply. They should be able to outrun it until morning if he and his men fail to contain it.

They keep pushing south, and they lose two more men who are not fast enough to dodge - even a fingers brush of touch is enough to die. He moves on instinct to block a blow coming for Leon with his own body, only realising what he has done after those spectral hands pass through him.

“ _Arthur!_ ** _No!_** ” Leon screams, pulling him backwards, and he wonders how long it takes death to catch up to a man. Lancelot has his hands on him as well, both of them lugging his armored body away, but he is… fine?

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he finds himself repeating. “I’m fine, keep going, let me down. Back to the fight.” He feels breathless, and his hands are numb, but he can still stand. Complex sword work might be beyond him, but he can hold a torch.

And if he can live through that then he can get in the way.

“He lives,” Leon shouts, and Arthur realizes that of course they had thought him dead. A resounding shout comes up from his men, and he’s sure he’ll appreciate it once his head stops ringing.

They can do this, they can keep it busy until daybreak. Until the sunlight drives it back underground. He takes a deep breath in and steels himself, which is when the spectre throws him into a tree like a ragdoll. He hadn’t known it could do that, he thinks dizzily. The ground is muddy beneath his gloves as he pushes himself up.

He has dropped his torch and his sword, but he needs both hands to push Gwaine down anyway. He feels no less sick the second time it touches him, yet he’s still standing. This must be Merlin’s doing, he thinks blearily. If he lives now it is by his grace, it must be. No one else could have done this, there are no druid protections here, and no other magical beings hold any love for him. It gives him the courage to rise again.

This time when he is pushed backwards he is thrown far enough to crash deep into the frigid lake. It knocks the breath clean out of him, and when he gasps in the water is as cold as snowmelt. Under the water it is nearly pitch black, and it disorients him, unclear which way is up. His armor pulls him down like a stone, and he tries to look up from that, sees little flickers of torchlight dancing across the surface above him. He kicks, but he has no air, and his armor is too heavy to fight.

His vision is turning darker, and the light is scattering into nothingness. He can hear distant shouting, and then nothing.

His vision is empty as he sinks out of the light. Would they even be able to recover him to return his body? How awful, that he should only have such a short time with Merlin, that he would not see neither Morgana nor him ever again. That suddenly seemed the most wretched fate of all.

A woman reaches out to comfort him.

He must be hallucinating from the lack of air. He had heard that happens, although he had always hoped he would face his death with an clear mind.

Or perhaps this woman he saw was a guide into the next life.

 _For the King,_ she whispers in his ear. The familiar pommel of a sword pushes into his hand, and thin arms pull him towards the surface as though he is weightless.

When he breaks through the waterline into the cold air sound rushes back to him. He can hear the fighting, the shouting of his men, hear himself take a wet, heaving breath. His lungs feel like they are burning, and his entire body prickles with needle sharp shocks. He is kneeling on the shore, coughing out water, not certain how he got there.

But he has a sword, and his men are still fighting.

He can barely keep his feet under him, and it is not an elegant strike. This time when he stabs it with his sword it hits cleanly, where the heart should lay, and burns the ghost with a golden flame from the inside out.

The dog stops barking when it vanishes into the air, which is nice.

He sits down heavily, feeling very tired and cold. The sword at his side seems to shine as though it were in full sunlight, golden and beautiful. The next time he raises his eyes Leon and Lancelot are by his side, Gwaine staring at him wide eyed from behind them, which Arthur vows to make fun of later as soon as he can speak again. Even further back the villagers who still stand begin to kneel. He wishes he could tell them they do not have to. They were all so brave, he thinks.

“Arthur, sire,” Lancelot sounds as though his is very far away, “are you… alright?”

“Get a fire going, now - he’s too cold, help me get this wet armor off of him,” Leon takes over. Steady Leon, he thinks fondly. And then he thinks of nothing at all.

***

The first time he wakes he is only conscious long enough to see Leon sitting by his side, head bowed. He looks around the room, and it is neither his nor the physicians quarters in Camelot. He goes back to sleep. If Leon is here, it is safe enough.

The second time he wakes Gwaine is there. He has terrible bedside manner, but he helps Arthur drink some broth without any jibes about it.

“He’s awake!” He shouts out the window like a fishwife.

But by the time whoever he hollered to arrives he is already asleep again.

He dreams, frilly nonsense ones about Merlin. The sort of dreams that he would wholeheartedly tease someone else about but dream Arthur isn’t embarrassed at all. Picnics and flowers, swimming together under the summer sun. Being fed a honey cake and sweet berries while he rests his head on Merlin’s lap. Merlin wearing a radiant coronet as he sits next to Arthur, holding his hand during the Beltane feast, their friends all around them. The table is plentiful and the hall is warm.

When he wakes up it’s Gwaine again, fiddling with an apple, and he pretends to fall back asleep just to annoy him.

“Ah-uh, I saw that,” he says.

“Pity,” Arthur croaks, “that you are ever so slightly cleverer than you look.”

“I’m tricky like that,” he agrees. His expression turns more serious. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I drank a barrel full of lake water and got thrown into a tree,” he answers honestly. “Help sit me up.” He holds out a hand demandingly.

“Take it easy,” Gwaine cautions, helping him gently. “We don’t think you broke any ribs, but there’s a lot of bruising.”

And yes, Arthur can feel that now.

“Are we still in Willowdale? How long has it been?”

“Yes, and only two days. The night of the, uh, events, and one more night past that. We didn’t want to risk moving you more. We sent Oswald for Gaius, but he has yet to return.”

“It’s not a hard journey, should he not be back by now?”

“Gaius is on the older side. If they aren’t here tomorrow someone else will go to check on the delay.”

“And Pellinore? The other dead? Have they been retrieved?”

“They have been, and burned. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry we could not wait for you, but we didn’t know when you would wake, and the village is still fearful after what happened. Leon read the rites.”

Ah. That was good at least. Leon would have done them justice.

“Do we know what happened yet?” A horrifying thought occurs to him. “It has stopped, hasn’t it? There are no more?”

“No!” Gwaine is quick to answer. “No more. The villagers put it together. A month or so past a man from here was hanged for sorcery. Some of them recognized his clothing, and what was, well, left of his face.” He waves his hand in front of his own face and then shrugs apologetically for the image.

“More unrest, more vengeance then? What was his crime?”

“Well, I’m not sure if it’s better or worse this way, but he wasn’t a particularly nice man. He was hanged for the murder as much as the magic I think, but let’s be honest, in Uther’s kingdom one of those crimes is worse than the other.”

Arthur doesn’t reprimand him, even though he technically should. He is very tired though, and thinks he can be forgiven.

“And he despised the village that did it?”

Gwaine nods and cuts off a piece of apple, holds it out to Arthur on the flat of his knife. His fingers barely tremble when he takes it, and he feels like it’s more to do with hunger than anything deeper pains. The apple slice disappears and he holds his hand out for the next one.

“Pushy,” Gwaine complains, “Merlin has spoiled you.”

“Being a prince has spoiled me,” he argues, “Merlin’s maybe the only one who doesn’t. Apple,” he demands.

“Only because you’re recovering,” he says, passing over another slice. “I should let Mother Leon know you are awake. Get some real food in you.”

Arthur’s stomach growls tellingly, and the long haired man laughs.

He stands to leave, but before he opens the door he pauses to speak once more. “Just as a heads up, a lot of people saw whatever happened. That you were untouched by that dead thing, that it was you who was able to kill it. Just… if anyone is odd about it. That’s all. They’re grateful.”

He thinks he remembers some of the men kneeling to him, but much of that night is a haze. He remembers most of the fight, the water, the sword. The _sword_ , he blinks. He doesn’t have long to dwell on it before Leon is pushing in, Lancelot behind him carrying a bowl and some bread, shutting the door with the heel of his foot. He’s lifting his hands for it before the smell even hits him, and then his stomach is growling again. Lancelot beams at him.

“Glad you’ve got an appetite!”

Arthur would answer, but his mouth is full. The _sword_ , he remembers again. He swallows thickly, feeling foolish.

“The sword?” He finally asks.

“Oh,” Leon blinks. “We weren’t sure what to do with it. It’s been here with you,” and he kneels to pull it from where it must have been laying by him while he slept, wrapped in a thick cloth.

When Arthur rests it across his knees and pulls the fabric back he gets his first good look at it. It is simply the most beautiful blade he’s ever seen in all his years. Stunning beyond compare. Shining for him as if lit from the heart of it. The golden filigree around the hilt is the finest work he’s ever seen, and as he lets his eyes trail up the impeccable shining blade of it he sees the engraving.

 _Take me up._ On instinct, he flips it tidily to see the other side. _Cast me away._

Beautiful _._

He cannot bring himself to set it down, but his hunger makes itself known again. He eats the bread with his off hand while he admires the sword a little longer.

“Arthur,” Leon says, “do you remember what happened?”

“I do,” he answers, “and I need to thank you. You attended to things well, even by Gwaine’s accounts. I’m sorry that the rites for Pellinore fell on your shoulders, but I’m sure you spoke highly of him. I am very sorry for his loss.”

“Yes, we all are,” Leon says, and Lancelot has ducked his head low. “I suppose I mean to ask, do you know what happened with _yourself?_ You saved my life, and Gwaine’s as well. I do not have the words to thank you. Even if I ask you to please don’t do it again! But do you know how you lived, or where this sword came from?”

Arthur has not thought up a single thing to say to this, so he merely meets Lancelot’s eyes and says very deliberately, “No, I don’t know how I survived.” He turns to Leon when he tells the truth. “And I have no idea where this sword came from, but I am very glad of it.”

“As am I,” he says, and gently presses a hand to Arthur’s shoulder. “I have never in my life seen such a thing. I thought we might all be dead come the morning. Thank you, sire.”

“You would do the same for me,” he says easily.

“I would - any of us would.”

“Hear, hear!” Lancelot cheers, “now _eat._ ”

They chat across his bed while he devours the thin soup, promising him more if he can keep it down. The village has been in high spirits again, making up for the missed festivities now that it is safer. Lancelot has more gossip, since he is not a knight, so he tells Arthur a little of what they are saying - even over two days it is growing like a tall tale. Arthur is not seven feet tall, for a start.

Something occurs to him.

“Is Elyan still here, Gwen’s brother?”

“Yes?” Leon confirms, “Did you need something of him?”

“I’d speak to him alone, if you’d send him up.”

Leon must suspect the subject of their conversation, considering he has no other call to speak to him, but he does not press. Perhaps a quarter of an hour after he and Lancelot leave him to rest, his eyes already sinking shut, a knock sounds at his door.

“Come,” he calls out. As requested, Elyan, alone.

“You wanted to see me, sire?” He asks, unsure. It seems somehow absurd to Arthur that he should be so tentative when _he’s_ the one who can’t swing his own legs out of bed. But it’s not really funny at all.

“Yes. I need to speak with you about your sister. I request that you do not ask me how I have this information, but nor can I deny it to you.” He says honestly.

“You have my word,” Elyan agrees immediately, intense.

“The last I heard she is safe, and she is with friends. Friends who would - and can - protect her should trouble find them. You have no cause to worry. She will always be welcome if I have anything to say about it.” They both knew he didn’t, but they both knew he would.

“ _Thank you_ ,” the other man says fervently. “I was not here when she needed me. My fears and worries have consumed me, I cannot tell you what it means to know she is safe.”

His eyes are wet, and Arthur finds himself touched by the sincerity, reminded so strongly of Gwen’s good heartedness. Before he can stop himself he finds himself being overly honest once more.

“I understand a bit. I have a sister too.” He clears his throat. “You remind me of Gwen a little. I’m only sorry that she is not here with you now.”

“It was not your doing,” Elyan’s voice is steady. “Thank you for telling me this. Thank you.”

“Telling you what? I know nothing,” Arthur teases. “Haven’t you heard, I was thrown into a tree.”

“Of course, sire, as you say.” His smile is quite like Gwen’s as well, Arthur finds.

***

He sleeps deeply, and wakes feeling better. The bruising on his chest is mottled and ugly looking, but his lungs are clear and nothing feels broken. Gaius will be able to tell him more when he arrives.

He does not arrive that day, and they send Lancelot to learn more.

It is two more days until Lancelot returns, along with Sir Oswald and Gaius, but the mood is sombre.

Gaius runs through his usual thorough checks silently, his eyes barely seeing Arthur. He endures it as best he can before he finally loses the battle with his patience.

“Tell me, whatever it is.”

“I want to determine if you are able to return,” Gaius says vaguely, and returns to pressing various pastes on his bruises. Arthur is ready to snap again, and opens his mouth when Gaius must realize he can delay no further. “I do not think you should be on a horse now, but you can walk.”

“Then I shall walk back,” he nods, decided. “Fine. Speak.”

“Sire,” the physician sighs, “I have known you since you were just a boy, an infant. I would spare you any pain if it were within my power to do so.” His voice is rough, and Arthur feels a curl of dread begin to creep over him.

“Is my father dead?” He asks bluntly.

“No, Arthur, he lives,” Gaius says, leaving his hand where it sits on Arthur’s purpling bruise, guiding him to sit on the bed. “But during the feast celebrations he was struck by a… fit of sorts.”

“Tell me plainly,” he orders,

“He believed he saw your mother,” the older man says softly.

He blinks harshly. The king does not speak of his dead queen. He is horrified, yet something nearly darkly glad to know that he still thinks of her at all. He had wondered what was in his father’s heart, especially of late.

“Did he?” Arthur asks. He saw a dead man on Samhain as well.

Gaius shakes his head. “No one else in the hall saw anything, I’m sorry my boy. Or perhaps it is glad news. She should not be disturbed from her rest.”

No, she shouldn’t be. If she had found peace in the next life she should be able to keep it.

“Has he recovered? Does he see her still?”

“He still speaks to her,” Gaius spoke to him softly, as though he were still that child he used to treat for scrapes and bruised elbows.

He both wants to know and doesn’t what to know what he says.

“And the great hall… they saw this. Heard this? Tell me everything, please. I must know. I must know what I return to. _Gaius_ ,” he pushes, when he gets no answer.

“They saw, yes. He apologized to her, begged her forgiveness. For her death, for what he had done. I am sorry, my boy, but he also confessed to an indiscretion. He claimed Morgana was his daughter.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, the pain through his chest a distant ache. The coward. The absolute _coward_. To deny her, to let her be raised as another man’s son - to take her into his home and continue the lie. Then to bring his sword against her, his own daughter.

“ _What?_ ” He spits, venomously.

Gaius doesn’t flinch from his fury.

“All these years?! He kept this from her? From me? She’s only a bare season younger than me! My mother still lived, and he did this?! The _cur!_ ” He doesn’t know when he got up, but he is at the door, bellowing. “Lancelot, Oswald, here now!”

“Sire,” Gaius begins.

“You have always been too kind to him, always!” The little forge he has tempered under his heart is fanned to full flame. He feels as though he will be sick with it.

“Sire?” Sir Oswald’s kind voice asks. He had always been kind, a good example of a knight. Wasted on Uther. Lancelot appears a step behind him.

“Tell me, what word from Camelot. Be blunt. Lancelot, wait outside out of hearing - gods help you if your answers are not the same.”

Oswald bows his head to him. “I can only tell you what I have heard, sire. Your father was unwell when he spoke.”

“I am not interested in his state, I want to know what he said. What the city is saying - what the court is saying. You were there for days, you must have heard.”

“Yes. He claimed guilt for the queen’s death, and for his daughter. The Lady Morgana, sire.” His eyes are clear and sympathetic when they meet Arthur’s, but he doesn’t mince his words.

“Thank you for your honesty, Sir Oswald. I swear I will remember it.” He tries to unclench his jaw, “I won’t subject you to my temper further. Send Lancelot to me, go and rest.” His knight gives him a full bow before he goes, and Arthur stares at the ceiling, unwilling to look at Gaius. The silence falls thickly around him.

“Prince Arthur.” Another kind man. An honest man.

“Just tell me - whatever rumors you’ve heard, whatever they are saying tell me.”

“He was sick,” Lancelot is too kind.

“He is sick,” Arthur agrees readily. “It is no excuse.”

“I only say because he might be under delusions, or magic,” Lancelot protests.

“And? Is there such a magic?”

Gaius nods, “There is. I searched the hall, his chambers. I found no mandrake.”

Lancelot sighs. Looks at Arthur with too much understanding, and Arthur hates him for it suddenly. He forces himself to turn away. He would give any treasure, any amount, to have Merlin here now. He is the only one Arthur can imagine taking sympathy from in good grace at the moment, and it’s unfair to Lancelot.

“He apologized for her death. As I imagine many men do, when their wives die in childbirth. And he confessed to having a daughter.”

“Morgana,” Arthur says.

“Morgana,” Lancelot confirms for him. The third man to say so. He can only imagine that everyone in the city has heard by now. “They speak of your regency.”

At this Arthur does startle, some of the anger shocked out of him. “What? It hasn’t even been a week. Is he so hated?”

Lancelot’s face doesn’t change, but he can’t be the only one sick of the hangings. The beheadings, the burnings, the missing family members. It is to Arthur’s shame that he had not been able to stop more of it, that this had continued for so long.

“He’s being called mad,” Lancelot says softly.

Arthur stares out the window of the little room he’s been staying in. Offered to him freely, and generously. The glass is a valuable rarity outside of the citadel, and it is flawed, warped and opaque, and he longs to shatter it cruelly. To break it open into the clear sky and take in a breath of air, unpolluted.

“Good,” he says.


	18. Merlin Fights Nimueh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nimueh is a drama queen and there is a sketch at the end that you will be forced to look at, sorry!

Merlin’s head is throbbing when he wakes, his skin feels overly sensitive, and his lips are dry and cracked. He didn’t drink the cider again, did he?

No, that was impossible.

He wasn’t in Camelot, he was on the Isle of the Blessed.

Reality was only reluctantly returning. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep at all, he had wanted to stay up and keep watch, just in case. He rubbed his eyes, they didn’t seem to want to open. Dreams slipped out of his mind before he could remember them, but he thought he dreamt of Arthur, and a dog? Maybe one of his hunting hounds? He misses visiting the kennels, maybe that’s why, he thinks amusedly, before remembering the reason he had wanted to stay up.

When he finally manages to peel his eyes open the day is shockingly clear, the mists having lifted for the first time. Things don’t seem so dire in the bright light of the sun, but something here still is strange and cold to him. When he pushes himself up off of his bedroll his fingers touch the cool metal of the sigil - which he had carefully wrapped and put away last night. Had Nimueh taken it again and left it for him to find? He hadn’t woken?

His body feels so heavy.

Nimueh is not here, but the others sleep deeply around him. The sun is high in the sky already, but none of them move at all. Gwen is closest, and he reaches to shake her awake, feeling the numbness of his sleep giving way to alarm. She doesn’t stir, not even when he calls out her name, but she is still warm, still breathing. Morgana, and even Morgause are the same, and he stumbles to his feet. He grabs hold of the sigil.

“Nimueh?” He calls out, and hears nothing but an echo of his own voice in response.

The grass and moss are wet as he begins to look for her, and the smell of it under his boots is crisp as winter comes closer. There are no sounds of life here though, and hadn’t been for the duration of their stay - he only realises how odd it is now.

He does not have to go far to find her. She sits at the foot of the great stone altar, tattered red dress spread around her. Does she not get cold, he wonders inanely. Her shockingly blue eyes drift to look at him, and she smiles just a shade as she pats the stone flooring next to her in invitation.

He fumbles a little as he folds his legs under himself, clumsy. She doesn’t speak, and he feels the strange atmosphere is too fragile to open his own mouth. For lack of anything better to do he brings up a little white flower between the cracked stones where they sit, a bead of dew clinging to its petals as they unfurl.

Nimueh touches the droplet and it tugs away from the flower, spinning through the air, before she breaks it on his nose, making him sputter. She smiles more truly at this.

“I owe you a thank you,” she says. “When Morgause brought you all here, I thought it was a sign. Two powerful magic users, returned to me, and the girl, a gift, right before Samhain.”

“Gwen?” He asks. Nimueh had been odd about Gwen this entire time, and he has not enjoyed a moment of it. She nods.

“It used to be that the only people who would step onto this island were the most powerful and magically gifted. Or a sacrifice. On Samhain her blood would have torn a path straight through the veil, and the spirits of the restless dead would have brought Uther’s kingdom to its knees.”

Merlin reels back at the mere thought of it, struck with useless terror, far too late. She laughs at him as he gapes, speechless and horrified.

“I didn’t, did I?” She lets her face become more serious once again. “And I could have - I thought that is what destiny had brought you all here for. But I see now she was not the gift you gave me.”

“Then what was?” Merlin chokes out. What could he have possibly given her?

“This,” she gestures to the sigil. “Ygraine.”

“You realised… you were wrong?”

“That’s charmingly optimistic of you,” she smirks. “I realised I had become so consumed with my thoughts of Uther, of myself, that I had forgotten Ygraine. The one who deserves Uther’s penance, his suffering more than anyone else. He stole her life from her and then murdered countless in her name. She would be disgusted with him. For over twenty years I have been patient, as Uther reaped the harvests of his genocide. As his people grew fewer, his crops less bountiful, magical creatures more bitter, his army thinner. One woman alone could not bring Camelot to ruin, but if I waited long enough… there would be an opportunity.” She looks up at the clear sky, purses her lips. “I thought that you and your girls arrival here was a sign, to take that opportunity. With the four of us we could not have been stopped.”

“She’s not _my girl_ , she’s _Guinevere_ , and you won’t touch her,” he says hotly. Never had he heard anything to make him think Arthur’s mother would want these things, would want more suffering.

“I won’t,” she agrees easily, cutting him off before he can really get going. “I have found a revenge that settles my heart far better.”

“What?” He asks uneasily, and she taps the sigil in reply. He draws it away from her and she rolls her eyes.

“I have had nothing of Ygraine all these years. And while a lock of hair would have been better, this held great meaning to her. Her and Uther both, even better. Instead of gutting your _Guinevere_ like a pig I borrowed this from you. Instead of summoning a horde of spirits with her blood, I summoned just one, just for him - with that sigil. The connection was enough.”

Merlin swallows.

“The mist?” It occurs to him to ask. “Was that you, is that why I did not wake?”

“Yes,” she says easily.

“This whole time?”

“I am patient,” she reminds him. “He will have to look into her eyes, and they will reflect what kind of a man he is. Her haunting will torment him with his guilt, for all of his remaining days. I will make sure of it, that he cannot forget her, see past her. He would never feel a shred of remorse for what he has done to anyone _but_ her, after all.” She stares into him. “Death is too good for him, and I am not interested in mercy. He will lose his mind, his son, his kingdom to the madness I will bear unto him - and he will know for the entirety of it that no relief or forgiveness, no gentle welcome into his wife’s arms will greet him when death finally comes for him. A lifetime to dread the eternity, forgotten and afraid.”

“Oh,” he whispers.

“Are you sorry for him?” She scoffs at him.

Is he? He is sorry that the sigil that Arthur entrusted him with was used like this, that it was stolen, would taint his memories of it, of his mother. He is sorry that Arthur will likely have to take on the responsibility of a crown, too early. He should have more time. He is sorry that Ygraine is being used for vengeance, when she should be able to rest. He is sorry that Arthur will have to endure his father, a shadow, haunted by his mother, whom he never was able to know. He is sorry for so very many things. Perhaps a better man would have endless mercy in his heart. But he is not sorry for Uther, no.

“I’m sorry for Arthur,” he admits. “I wish things were different for him. That none of this had happened at all. And for his mother.”

“I’m sure many people wish that,” she dips her head. “I tried to scry him, you know. To look upon her child and see what you see. Whatever you have done to protect him is strong, though. I could not find him, even through the water. I don’t admit that easily.”

Merlin doesn’t know what he has done, but he feels that way often. He doesn’t know what protection he could have given Arthur, or about the rowan tree, or about his magic at all - you could fill a library, ten, with the things Merlin does not know. He rests his head on his knees. Arthur had eaten the berries from the tree at Merlin’s word, and he desperately wants to know what it means. Protection, hopefully, or something like it, if it prevents Nimueh from spying on him.

“And you’ll leave him be? Arthur, I mean? And Camelot?”

“Maybe,” she smiles teasingly at him. “If your faith is not misplaced. If this satisfies me. Or maybe I still will not be settled, not until there is nothing left of Camelot. I might still let you take your prince away even so, as a kindness to his mother. I don’t know. Samhain will come again, and, well.”

“You are patient,” he finishes moodily, to her nod. He hopes this circle of vengeance can be cut to the end here. Please. He’d fight her, but he doesn’t want to - he’s not sure he’d win.

“Will you tell me about the rowan tree?” He asks. If she is confused she does not show it, merely grows sombre once more.

“The heart of the isle,” she repeats her earlier words on it. “It stood as a font for magic into the world, and has grown here for as long as witches have memory of this place. It has withered over the years. I have never seen it bloom or bear fruit, and now it is dead.” Her tone is hollow. “Magic has abandoned Camelot entirely.”

“It never bloomed, not even before the purge?” He presses insensitively. He had theorized in the privacy of his own thoughts that the purge was what placed it in decline, but maybe it was not so. The cold core of the isle was so different from the land where the druids had tended. It had grown and stretched quickly on the ridge, in the fresh ashes and earth. Perhaps the magic here had been in poor service for longer than twenty years, priestesses taking and taking, and repaying with blood. He thinks grimly of the bodies that might have lain across this altar in the past, killed for power, to wake the dead and bring terror down on their enemies. What balance was there in that?

It could have been Gwen.

“No,” Nimueh says sadly. “It never did.”

***

Merlin doesn’t know what to do now. He has an uneasy peace with Nimueh, in that neither of them particularly want to kill the other, but probably would try if they had to - and they both know it. He does not tell her of the tree. Perhaps it would comfort her to know that it, or something like it, still lived. Or perhaps she would be furious for the loss, the final theft. He does not care to risk it, and so this will be his secret now.

He also does not wish to say how close Gwen came to death, but he questions hiding it. Did Morgause know? Will Nimueh tell them what she has done to Uther? Should _he_?

He fidgets and picks at the beds of his fingernails.

Uther would have seen the spirit of the queen - or whatever cursed apparition of her Nimueh had laid on him - by now, even if he had slept the night through. Was Arthur in Camelot? He hopes he is away, that he is safe. But the consequences will fall on his shoulders regardless, be it today, or tomorrow, or a year from now. Merlin _needs_ to return to him, but even with Nimueh’s word he is unwilling to leave Gwen and Morgana alone with her. His heart has not calmed, beating with a quick panic inside his chest. He tries to take a deep breath. He wishes Arthur were here to tell him what to do, and then feels terrible about it. Arthur will have enough to worry over now.

He feels ill, not knowing what unfolds in Camelot. For bringing this new strife to it’s door, however unwittingly. He is the one who handed the method of the king’s downfall to Nimueh. For feeling not nearly as sorry as he should.

He is a grown man now, but he wants his mother, which makes him feel _worse_ , poor Ygraine, poor Arthur. He would share his own mother with the prince, but he knows that’s not how hearts work.

He corners Morgause first.

She insists that she did not know what Nimueh meant to do. He believes her - she would not do such a thing to Morgana, at the very least. In Merlin’s mind that is not the only reason you should not sacrifice a human life to summon a wave of hungry dead, but he’ll take what he can get today.

With Gwen and Morgana he is far more delicate, and he can’t bring himself to mention Nimueh’s original fate for them. Perhaps they deserve to know, to guard themselves, but he can’t seem to do it. They know that Uther has been cursed, though, with the intention of torment for his remaining days. Morgana lets out a nervous inappropriate laugh.

“It’s not funny at all, I’m sorry,” she covers her mouth. “I just don’t know what to say. Doesn’t quite feel real.”

And it doesn’t. He supposes Nimueh might have been lying in some way, or have failed in her task, but he doubts it. He suspects it is very real, but in the crisp autumn air, the sun beaming down on them and warming their skin despite the chill - it also feels very far away.

“Will we go back now? Will Arthur try and send for us do you think?” Gwen asks more practically, her anxious hands twisting together.

He shrugs helplessly.

“This doesn’t mean he’ll be regent. Or not right away at least. I don’t know how that works,” Merlin admits.

“Uther will have to be declared unfit to rule,” Morgana clarifies. “I suppose Gaius and Geoffrey will have the biggest say, ultimately - it would take some time though, I would imagine. The kingdom will be vulnerable.”

“It’s a curse? Should we… try and break it?” Gwen asks.

Morgana’s eyes slide guiltily to the side. Merlin finds himself doing the same. He knows it is cold hearted of him, but he will wait until he speaks to Arthur before even considering it. Perhaps not even then. The faces of all the magic users he had seen killed flash through his mind, some even deserving of their fate - many not.

“If we even could, all it would mean is that Uther would continue to slaughter people. I’m not willing to put the axe back in his hands. It’d be as good as killing them myself. I won’t do it.” Morgana finally says, looking at them both in turn, chin held up stubbornly. He cannot find it in himself to disagree.

“This will be difficult for Arthur,” Gwen says. “He’ll need friends, and support.”

“He’ll have it,” Merlin says quickly. “Of course he’ll have it. But what do we do? Go back? Wait? He doesn’t know how to find us, I don’t want to leave you here with her- I don’t want you to _stay_ here - I don’t want to travel through Camelot if there is still _death_ waiting for us if Morgana is recognized-”

Morgana is shaking his shoulders, and he realizes he’s begun to rant rather furiously, blinking hotly. He looks down at his clenched fists, pale white and red, the blue of his veins. All he can think of are all the things he doesn’t want. It’s unlike him to feel so beaten down. What _does_ he want? The only thing he can focus on is getting back to Arthur once more.

“We’ll go back,” she says. “We’ll be fine, we’ll stay together. Worst case they bring us to Camelot for a trial, which is where we want to go anyway. Or we escape again.”

“Yes, I’ll just stop bloody time again,” Merlin complains, unfolding his hands to bury his face in them.

“That’s the spirit,” Gwen smiles wryly.

Nimueh does not try and stop them when they pack their bags and prepare to return. She waves after them while they push away from the dock and Merlin waves back on instinct, then tugs his hand down, sees her laugh at him as the mists swallow her up again. He doesn’t enjoy the boat any more than he had the last time.

They had left their horses in Stonedown with pay for stable space and feed for a month, if they are good on their word they’ll be able to make decent time to Camelot. Four days. Maybe five. The pass of Camlann will slow them, and Morgause is in full armor with no second horse to carry it.

His worry prevents him from any good cheer. He tries to return to his more usual optimism, but every shadow seems to make him jump. The isle was bleak in many ways, but he misses practicing his magic freely as soon as he leaves it. It’s remarkable how quickly he had become accustomed to using it as he pleased while they traveled. Now any sight of it might get him killed.

Well, probably not _killed_. He doesn’t think he can be burned now, and he’s very good at not being hit with things. But they might _try_ which would be terrible for everyone.

And it might not be the law for much longer, he thinks with an edge of joy, quickly followed by a deep swell of guilt. Poor Arthur.

They stop in Howden, of all places.

No one recognizes him, and why would they? A servant who passed through nearly three years ago now. But when Morgause asks after things, if they have been well - she is remembered for trying to help them.

They’ve had no further trouble from the river, and things feel settled here in a way that has become familiar to him as he is exposed to more and more magic.

“Was this your doing?” Morgause leans in to question with a whisper.

He shrugs helplessly, feeling manic. Who knows anything anymore? She glares at him like he’s being difficult on purpose, but he’s really not.

They are welcomed and treated kindly, and given that same only room at the tavern that he and Arthur had slept in, where Merlin had first told him about his mum, about Ealdor. The lessons she taught him, to read and write, the sweet childhood story she used to tell him of Brigid blessing her so she could have him. About Fennel the goat.

In the dark of the room his eyes are dry, too tired to let melancholy find him again.

What would he tell his mother of this journey? What would she think of him now? He hopes she would not be too disappointed in him. He has tried to be good, but he has been shaken by many of the things he has learned, and he knows that good is not such a simple thing to be.

He needs to sleep.

Tomorrow he will fly ahead to Camelot for news while the others wait for him to return with safe word.

***

The castle is beautiful as ever in the distance, and from the air he has the best view in the kingdom. So lovely that he doesn’t really want to land. When he is in different shapes he is always still merely himself, nothing is any simpler or less frightening. But this first form is the only one he has that can cross the sky itself, that can make everything seem so wonderfully small.

It is humbling, and it reassures him.

The castle is still standing, and he can see the life in the city as he circles down, shops are still open, people are still walking and talking, living. For most of them it won’t matter overly much who is king. The perspective makes another measure of his anxiety slide away.

He lands on Arthur’s window ledge, and makes the awkward climb inside. No one is here, but he can’t be surprised - it’s past midday, even if Arthur is at the castle there is no way he would be lounging in his room. Everything is perfectly tidy, and Merlin has the absurd desire to muck something up, so he leaves before he can indulge it.

Soaring over the training grounds does not reveal Arthur either, and it is as empty as he has even seen it. So few knights.

He lands at the gate, hoping to hear something, but the guards are tense and quiet. A child points at him, tugs at their mother’s skirts but he learns nothing.

In the market he has greater success, if it can be called that. Nothing new, but there are mutterings of the king’s outburst. It’s not that he wishes Nimueh had been lying, precisely, or had failed in her work, but it still brings a new finality to it when he hears. His worry must have worn him down, because it doesn’t make him feel much of anything.

He just needs to find Arthur.

His patience does _not_ pay off, and he restlessly tries by one of the servants exits to the kitchen instead. He sees Cecily with what must be her baby - no longer a baby. He doesn’t know much about children, but certainly they don’t grow that quickly? But it’s the consistently gossipy kitchen boys who finally give him anything interesting. He listens to a very crude description of the nights events, even if he has doubts that Uther’s head had truly spun round on his shoulders. Thomas, who is old enough to know better, gasps with mortified childish delight, and asks, “So is Prince Arthur the king now?”

“Well he ain’t here, is he? Bram says he left, and then men went out to find him, but then Sir Oswald came back, and _then_ he left again. I bet when he comes back he gets to be king though, he’s right good with a sword.”

Thomas nods consideringly and Merlin despairs. Bram works in the stables though, maybe there is something to it and Arthur isn’t even here at all. There is no way to know where the prince went though, and he clicks in annoyance. Both boy’s limited attention turns to him.

“Look! A hawk!”

He flutters his wings obligingly before he flies away again. Enough of this. He will not wait any longer. Nimueh said she couldn’t scry Arthur, but _he’s_ not Nimueh now is he? Finding a hidden corner to switch shapes he is only briefly a man, then a mouse, and he goes to the only other place he can think of that he wants to try - Gaius’s chambers.

He is too determined to be afraid as he makes his way to the shut door. Squeezing under it is easy and he comes out into an empty workspace. Of course Gaius would be attending the king. He hesitates sadly for only a moment before he takes the few long strides to his familiar door. His own little room is the same as when he left it, and he feels a pang as he fumbles for a shallow bowl. As soon as it touches the table with a wooden _clack_ it is filled to the brim with water, his impatience making itself useful finally.

Merlin closes his eyes, tries to center himself. Takes a deep breath, and thinks of Arthur. He begins to chant the spell, but when he looks down at the bowl Arthur is already there, as clear as if he were standing right in front of him. He trails off, mumbling awkwardly, the spell useless. Oh. Well.

Whatever prevented Nimueh from doing this it didn’t seem to be an issue for _him_ , he thought smugly. He peers eagerly down, there will be time to congratulate himself later.

Arthur looked grim and stone faced as he walked through a forest path much like any other. Leon and Gaius are with him, and many other men besides that are unclear to him. Is that Gwaine, fuzzy in the distance? None of them ride their horses, leading them on foot. Is there a reason, a clue in the terrain that can help him find them? If only he could see where they were!

In a dizzying pull he is suddenly yanked backwards, looking from farther away, and farther still, until the seasickness he thought he left at the boat comes back to him in a rush. All the way back to Camelot the water drags him along without so much as a ripple. He pushes the bowl back and grips the edge of the table, tries to calm his spinning stomach. North, they were north. He’s certain of it.

He lets himself out of his window and hopes that it won’t rain.

_Sorry, Gaius._

His wings beat quickly, out of the city and over the pretty sloping hillside. _Soon,_ he thinks. Time stretches on interminably, and he keeps his eyes on the distant forest, approaching closer and closer.

There, red.

He sees him, whole and standing, but walking as though it is through a struggle. Anyone who did not know him so well would not see his grimace, but Merlin does. Leon gives a shout as Merlin barrels out of the sky to land on the pommel of Llamrei’s saddle. She’s a warhorse, and barely flinches, but he realizes how silly this was when Arthur turns and stares at him with incredulous blue eyes. Oh, he’s still a bird, of course - again - and he can’t change back now. Hm. He shuffles on his feet, uncertain.

“What the devil?!” Gwaine gasps in shock, clutching his chest dramatically. So it was Gwaine he saw - what is he doing here?

Merlin tries to peep in a manner that suggests he is a friendly raptor.

“A messenger bird,” Gaius says quickly, “lost perhaps.”

“He seems tame enough,” Arthur’s voice is teasing, but raw, and Merlin would dearly like to have arms to hold him. Or smack him. _Tame_ , hah.

He puts out his ungloved hand, and Merlin steps on it carefully while Leon makes an alarmed noise, shuffling to his shoulder as gently as he can manage. Arthur isn’t wearing armor, but Merlin doesn’t even snag on his tunic or his cloak a single time, to his own pleasant surprise. Once he’s settled as close in as he can be, he puffs his feathers out so they fluff against Arthur’s cheek, and hopes he knows what it means. Arthur snorts, and his lips twitch in the barest of smiles.

It’ll have to do for now.

The march back to the castle is a long and quiet one. It is dark when they return, and Gaius says that the prince needs rest, to have his injuries tended to. Arthur’s men bow to him, deeply and with significance, even the ones who have long ago lost that formality. Some of them linger on the strange falcon that still perches on the prince’s shoulder as they break away, Lancelot in particular, but Merlin will not be moved. He preens his feathers, not meeting Lancelot’s eyes.

He doesn’t change back until he is alone with Arthur in his chambers, the prince settled into a chair by the fireplace. Furs and rugs scatter the floor in deference to the coming winter, and they soften Merlin’s footsteps as he hesitantly approaches. Arthur doesn’t look up until he brushes his hand gently through the prince’s hair.

The bruising on Arthur’s chest and back won’t allow Merlin to embrace him as he desires to do, but he touches his cheek and tilts his chin up when Arthur won’t meet his eyes. He lets his thumb caress through the stubble that has started to grow, admires the hint of red in it in the firelight. He sits on the rugs at Arthur’s feet and lets his head rest on his knee, soft in his sleeping clothes, and stares into the fire until Arthur is ready to speak.

“You’ll stay, now, won’t you?” He says quietly, carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “If I can make it safe for you?”

Merlin nods, looking up at him, wraps a hand around Arthur’s ankle just to have another point of anchor. “I always wanted to stay, you know that.”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees, “I know, I believe you.” He swallows, and looks back into the fire and away from Merlin when he asks after Morgana. “How is she? You’ve returned, so I can only imagine you all heard. News certainly travels quickly,” he says bitterly.

Merlin knows he has to tell him of Nimueh. They have promised no more secrets, but he can’t seem to open his mouth to say anything at all. He is struck immobile by the grief in Arthur’s voice.

“A daughter,” Arthur finally says, voice faint in disbelief. “All these years, kept hidden. She’s my sister and he didn’t even have the dignity to allow us to know.” His expression hardens again, and he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose as Merlin reels.

“What?” he gasps.

Arthur blinks down at him, torn from his dark mood at Merlin’s shock.

“You _didn’t_ know then? But then, what did you hear - how did you know to come?” Arthur reaches out and tweaks his ear, and Merlin only protests out of habit.

“Uhm,” he starts promisingly. Arthur merely raises his eyebrows at him and it pierces straight through him, like always. The whole sordid tale comes pouring out - Morgause, Morgana, Nimueh, Gwen’s narrowly avoided fate that he would have _slept through_ , his mother’s precious sigil, which he had entrusted to Merlin. The rowan tree.

“It’s all my fault,” he agonizes. “I showed her the sigil, but I didn’t mean for it to happen, I swear. I never meant for any of it. And I don’t know if I’ve _done_ something to you because I don’t know what I’m _doing_ ,” he wails, stuffing his face back into Arthur’s knee to hide.

Arthur gapes at him, but instead of fury all the anger seems to drain from him, and he leans over too far with his bruising just to push his lips to the crown of Merlin’s head with a huff of disbelief.

“Only you, Merlin,” he chides.

“You’re in shock,” Merlin says bluntly.

“Maybe,” Arthur finally tilts back with a groan, holding his ribs, sore. “It’s done, though, all of it. And nothing will change unless we make it so. Do you know why I was out of the castle on your birthday?”

“On Samhain? No?”

“We were hunting a black dog, and ended up fighting, well - a wraith? A revenant? I don’t properly know. He killed three men just by touching them, armor did nothing, our swords were useless. He struck me, twice,” and Merlin whipped to standing, pulling at Arthur’s shirt to look at his chest like he would suddenly notice he was dead, “and I still lived.” Arthur swats at Merlin’s hands, grabs his wrists. “I can only think it was because of you.”

He pulls Merlin down to kiss him soundly.

“I cannot tell you how furious I am at my father. I lack the words. In Willowdale when I heard I thought I might kill him myself. He suffers, and it is ugly, and yet… I hope that my mother can forgive me, and I hope that this Nimueh merely cursed him, that her spirit is at rest. But he has brought this on his own head. Not you. And not even me.”

“You’re handling this too well,” Merlin squints at him suspiciously, screwing up his face.

“Because you are here with me again,” Arthur says bluntly, only flushing slightly, “and it gives me faith. We have already done so many impossible things, what are a few more. Together, remember?”

In the face of such adoring and outright honesty Merlin finds himself fumbling, red and embarrassed, but pleased. He feels much the same. The worry and strain that had hounded him is lessened just by the sight of Arthur, alive and whole, if not perfectly happy. They can work on happy.

“I love you,” it spills out of him without meaning to, but it is the truth.

Arthur’s soft flush deepens to a beet red, and he opens his mouth but nothing comes out. “And - I love you,” he eventually manages, sounding choked. With emotion or with embarrassment Merlin cannot tell, but it makes him smile all the same.

“You should sleep,” Merlin bullies him into standing after they have spent a long moment just staring at each other like ninnies.

“You won’t go,” Arthur states - not a question. “Fetch another nightshirt.”

“I can sleep as a stoat,” Merlin reminds him, teasing. “Or an otter, if you want a cuddle.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, getting himself into bed and averting his eyes with surprising modesty as Merlin changes. Arthur’s clothes are always so much softer than his own.

“I prefer you like this,” he says, not meeting Merlin’s gaze, still red. “I don’t want to go to sleep yet.”

Merlin hums. “One of the kitchen boys said you would probably be king because you were right good with a sword,” he says. Indelicate, perhaps, but he thought Arthur would find it funny.

“Ah, yes,” he says wisely, “that is how we decide it.”

“I knew it,” Merlin astounds while Arthur’s stoic face cracks into a smile.

“Gwen’s brother came back,” Arthur offers.

“ _What_?” Merlin rolls to face him. “You know, I didn’t even know Gwen had a brother at all until recently. She’ll be happy.”

“I’m glad you showed Nimueh the sigil if it saved Gwen’s life,” Arthur admits. “And also the hoard of ghosts would have been bad, I imagine. We struggled with just one.”

“How did you kill it, anyway?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Arthur grins at him, and tells him of his new sword, extolling its virtues well past the point that any sane man could listen.

He tries to nod along and pretend to be interested, but before long the sound of his adoring voice causes Merlin to drift. The bed is so very soft, and smells like Arthur, who loves him. The fire is warm, and crackling gently, and he thinks he feels a kiss on his brow as he tumbles gently into sleep.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, just because he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with it this far! I feel like this chapter was a little all over the place trying to get where it was going, sorry, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway :P


	19. Arthur Fights his Reputation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever so slightly spicy bit in the second half, but very closed door romance - if the rating goes up I'll say so!

Arthur wakes to Merlin puttering around and humming to himself, just like he used to. It takes him a full minute to realize it isn’t a pleasant lingering dream. He leaves his eyes closed to savor it a little longer - he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed when he hears something hit the stone floor with a thud.

“Whoops,” he hears Merlin whisper, and he fights a fond smile, pushing his head into his pillow.

“Alright?” He queries, sounding sleep rough.

“Oh, you’re awake finally!” Merlin pulls back the bed curtains to the full light of day and Arthur winces. “Sorry,” he says as he climbs back into the bed, sitting cross legged on top of the blankets, beaming down at Arthur. “How do you feel? I couldn’t ask for breakfast or for more salve since, well, you know, I’m not strictly speaking supposed to be here. Do you want a hot bath? Are you very sore?” He pulls Arthur’s shirt up boldly, looking at his bruises.

Arthur merely blinks at him, still half asleep. “You aren’t my manservant any longer, you don’t have to do any of that,” he reminds Merlin. “You could have slept more.”

“I _like_ taking care of you,” Merlin says without a hint of shame.

Arthur has to hide his face in his pillow again for a moment. His back pulls unhappily at the motion - he’d needed to return to the citadel to tend to things, but it’s possible he shouldn’t have exerted himself so much. He feels wretched with the previous day’s sweat and salve, and a wash would be divine.

“A bath sounds good,” he says, and Merlin rolls off the bed with an _oof_ in his haste to see to it. Arthur snorts in laughter and then holds his ribs. Always the worst to heal. “Wait, don’t go to the door, let me do it!”

“I don’t need to go to the door,” Merlin scoffs. And true enough, when he sees past the curtain there is already a luxurious looking copper tub that had not been there last night, filled with steaming water. Little herbs and flowers bob along the surface of the sparkling water, and Arthur sends the warlock a searching look. Somewhere a harp starts playing, and Merlin shuffles his feet. A grape vine springs forth from nothing, heavy with fruit.

“Merlin, finally after these long years I see your true value,” Arthur praises blank faced and serious while Merlin rolls his eyes, cheeks pink.

“Prat,” he complains, even as he moves to help Arthur to the tub. The motion causes the overly large sleep shirt he had borrowed from Arthur to slide down one pale shoulder, showing off the long line of his neck, a delicate collarbone. The morning light is shining through the tunic, worn thin and soft with age, and Arthur can see the narrow shape of his waist. It occurs to him that he has been staring. It would be chivalrous to look away.

“Wait, I want to call for breakfast before I get in-” he says instead.

“And Gaius should see to you,” Merlin interrupts him, pushy.

“Fine,” Arthur wouldn’t mind more of the bruise salve anyway. “Why don’t you fly down and visit him if he’s alone? Can tell him to come up in a bit, and you can see him.”

“What if someone comes in and sees the tub?” Merlin hesitates.

“Put the screen there, I won’t let anyone come _in_ , it’s fine. See Gaius.” _And leave me with what little dignity I have_ , he doesn’t say. He pecks a quick kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth because he can’t help himself.

While Merlin goes out the window with one last backwards glance, barefoot and still in Arthur’s sleepshirt - because of course he is - Arthur sits on the side of his bed for a moment, feeling very overwhelmed.

The grape vine waves one of its green leaves at him coquettishly.

“Good gods,” Arthur says to the empty room.

The bath _does_ help, though. The herbs are not overly floral, and the harp music is almost relaxing enough to send him back to sleep. There had been playful little mermaids engraved on the inside of the bath that had amused him and kept him awake by performing showy dives in and out of the water. He pops another grape in his mouth before he heaves himself out, far less sore and aching than when he got in.

All his troubles seem very far away for at least an hour, which is the biggest gift of all.

Arthur is slowly picking at his overly large breakfast when Merlin returns to the window, his silly little shuffle as amusing as ever. He should probably figure out a perch or something like it to make it easier, but it’s also very funny.

“Gaius will come soon,” he says, sitting across from Arthur and sprawling over the table to steal a pear slice.

“Grow your own pears,” Arthur commands, even as he passes Merlin a slice of bread with butter and jam slathered on it. Too skinny. “You should probably get rid of the bath,” he says around his own bite of bread.

“What bath?” Merlin asks, grining. Behind the screen Arthur sees just the empty floor.

“Yes, very clever you - what about the harp?”

“Oh, yes - right,” he flushes while Arthur smugly finishes his bite, licking jam off of his thumb. Merlin looks a bit like what Arthur assumes _he_ must have earlier, and he feels less like a degenerate.

He only has a short time before Gaius and the real world crash down around them again.

“I-” he starts, only to trail off, unsure of what he wants to say. “I’m glad you’re here, Merlin.”

The smile he gets in return sets his stomach fluttering.

“It’ll be alright, you’ll see,” Merlin promises him - and Arthur believes him. None of the problems facing him have been lessened, but the morning has come regardless. The city is noisy outside his open window, unceasing.

He still cannot think of his father without that same ugly - furious - disdain fogging his mind, wondered if he ever would again. The deception and cowardice too fresh by far. But there is much work to do if he is to repair the damage done, so he tries not to think of him at all.

Gaius knocks, and keeps his eyes down as he checks him over to make sure the long walk back to Camelot had not injured him further. Arthur recalls his dark temper the last time they spoke, and refuses to be ashamed. Gaius _is_ always too forgiving of his father, his old friend… Although perhaps he was not the one who deserved Arthur’s ire. Merlin natters on, if not oblivious to the mood then certainly willing to cheerfully ignore it.

“Did you know Nimueh?” Arthur asks rudely. Merlin gapes at him and mouths something unflattering at him that he doesn’t want to say out loud in front of Gaius. But Gaius had been there in his father’s court, and Arthur does not know enough of those times.

And for the second time in as many days the whole business is trod out. The more it is gone over the easier it is to look upon with distance, although he would still rather never speak of it again. Hiding the truth had done no favors to Camelot however, and while Arthur is not regent yet he is not willing to indulge it further.

“Nimueh is arrogant, and always has been,” Gaius concludes after he learned what she had done. “She thrived when challenged, when fighting. It is true, that your father used magic to gain a son,” he says sadly, “but Nimueh believed she could control life and death itself. Neither of them got what they expected in the end. And now she does so again, toying with things better left to rest.”

Arthur felt a guilt stirring in him. Merlin claimed he was unfamiliar with what Nimueh did exactly, unsure if his mother’s spirit had been truly called or if Uther was simply cursed. It was far simpler to let himself believe that Uther’s haunting was a justified one when he didn’t have to think of his mother.

“And that forgives everything he did?” Arthur murmurs darkly, unhappy to even consider it.

“No,” Gaius shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. So many died in the aftermath, so many who did nothing to deserve it.” He sighs heavily. “You will be king,” he says plainly, “and many choices will be left to you. It should not be Nimueh who decides the fate of Camelot.”

Merlin’s voice was soft. “Morgana said that… if we lifted the curse it would be just like putting the axe back in Uther’s hands. He would be king again, not Arthur. It would only lead to more innocent deaths, Gaius.”

“So she is allowed to torture who she chooses if it suits you? To placate her terrors that she threatens the people of Camelot with?” Gaius asks, voice sad and gentle.

“ _Neither_ of them should determine any single thing for the people of Camelot,” Arthur rubs his temples. “But I am not king, I am not even regent, and Morgana is also right - certainly none of this will make him less hateful towards magic. It’s been bloody enough since she’s been gone. He’s not rational. Gaius, I know he was your friend, but you must see that.”

“I cannot tell you what is the lesser evil,” he says, “but Nimueh is not someone I would bargain with. She may have claimed this would satisfy her, but I do not believe it will be so. She is not one to be content. Worse may come when she grows bored of this game.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. Two paths, neither of them one he wanted to walk. He wondered what his mother would think of this, of him. He does not want to choose the lesser evil, to resign himself to appeasing someone’s bitter ends no matter what he decides.

“If I were regent…” he trails off. There is no precedence for any of this. If Merlin breaks the spell upon his father - if he even _can_ or _will_ \- Uther will remain king, of sound mind. More deaths will certainly follow, and his hands will be just as red as Uther’s for them. If he allows the spell to remain his mother’s spirit is in some unknown state to him, and they have to hope that Nimueh’s cruelty contents her well enough to leave Camelot be, to bow to her vengeance. “I just-I cannot forgive him. Not for any of it. Maybe he is getting what he deserves. Maybe she deserves revenge - maybe all the dead magic users do. Maybe my mother does.”

Merlin’s hand is gentle when he strokes carefully down his back.

“She would never regret you coming into this world,” Gaius says firmly, “but the rest will be for you to decide. Your father is not fit to rule as he is, and I will swear as such to Geoffrey as well as any lords who raise issue. The regency will be yours soon enough. I only wish for you to think on what kind of ruler you want to be. Forgive me, sire, for overstepping, but I would say my piece while I can.”

Arthur straightens his head, looking at Gaius’s grim face.

That is fast. Faster than is decent, honestly. Gaius is extending his faith to him, and Arthur feels a swell of emotion come to him uninvited. Wasn’t it merely this morning he had felt such a deep surety that the future would be a bright one? A regent has more power than a prince.

If he does not favor either of the paths that lay ahead of him it is his duty to carve a new one.

***

It is always strange to think how quickly rumors spread. When he had strode out of his chambers resolute to face the challenges the day would bring he had assumed there would… be more challenges.

The castle must have been buzzing these past long days about the dreadful Harvest feast, Uther’s mania, Morgana’s true parentage. He’s lived in the city long enough to have anticipated it.

What he had not anticipated was that now they instead seemed to be buzzing about _him._

_Did you hear? He was blessed - not even death could touch him!_

_He struck the devil in the heart, and holy light shone from the blackness!_

Arthur was not sure either of those things were totally accurate. He was pretty sure that they were not, in fact. He was, one might say, fairly certain he only lived because his manservant was in love with him. His sacked manservant, at that. He thought about Merlin, no doubt lounging around Arthur’s chambers even at that moment, perhaps sprawled across Arthur’s bed, reading. Maybe he was still in Arthur’s sleeping tunic, warm and waiting for him, pink from spending the cold day inside with the fire built high.

Arthur tried to refocus.

It was truly remarkable how eager to please people had become overnight, he thought sourly. For all that they seemed so terribly impressed by what he had done, no one seemed to come to the conclusion that it was magic that was the cause. It boggles the mind. If a prince does it they are chosen by the gods themselves, apparently.

He’s left feeling very annoyed, but it also makes things very straightforward for him. He is unwilling to turn the advantage down when he needs every last advantage he can get.

All of his talks with nobles and aldermen go smoothly, with many backhanded assurances of loyalty - to _him_ , when his father has been shut away for only a week. The guards are so professional that he has nothing to correct for once. Lancelot meets his eyes and they exchange a look of bemusement which helps him get through the tour of his own guardhouse. He’s known it back to front since he was _six_ , he has played so much hide and seek in here he probably knew it better than any of them.

The whole castle has gone mad.

His dinner is sumptuous, but it’s hard to enjoy it when every eye in the great hall is fixed on him.

He gives a speech, with lots of leading language about ‘changing’, and being brave in the coming days, for newer, brighter futures, of family. Morgana had always been dearly loved in Camelot, and he hopes she will be welcomed back happily as her favorite daughter once more. Instead of suggesting he’s angling for his father’s crown before his time in a grotesque display of greed, people stand and cheer. His knights stomp their feet like barbarians and he thinks he sees a lady swoon.

He’s entirely too stunned to feel anything other than disbelief.

“Is it possible the entire castle is under an enchantment?” He asks as he bursts into his chambers dramatically, finally able to leave, turning down drink after drink, toast after toast.

“Wha?” Merlin says muzzily, tucked so deeply under the pile of blankets that only his messy hair poufs out.

“A spell of some kind? That makes them all _bloody insane_?”

“Mm, I guess? Sure.”

This is not the response he has been hoping for. Merlin flops over onto his back, and stretches a hand over his head. In the moonlight he looks pale as alabaster, his wrist very thin where it lays against one of Arthur’s pillows.

“Did you eat?” He asks, taking off his boots, hopping foolishly in place. Merlin should have been at the almost feast. It didn’t seem fair that people thought he was chosen by the gods when really he was chosen by Merlin. A wave of blasphemous smugness rolls over him.

“Mhm, Gaius made sure,” he snuffles. “Oh, do you need help?” He asks, when Arthur has finished disrobing by himself.

“I want a shave,” he says instead, scratching at his weeks worth of growth. He’s blond enough that it’s quite fine, but it’s been itching him all day.

“Are you drunk?” Merlin finally sits up, looking deeply amused. Arthur holds up his first finger and thumb very close together.

“Little bit,” he says. “Everyone is being very odd. They keep being nice to me, nicer than usual. They’re acting like I’m king already.”

“They love you,” Merlin says soppily, and makes a kissy face at him.

He is still wearing the sleep shirt, and he looks very lovely. Arthur makes a kissy face back at him and Merlin laughs, and that’s lovely too.

“You are tipsy, aren’t you?” Merlin reaches his hands out and Arthur goes to him immediately. He scratches Arthur’s beard like he’s one of the dogs in the kennel, but he just groans and pushes into it rather than letting himself feel offended.

“Not so much,” he argues. “Just a little bit. People kept putting drinks in my hands, and the wine was not very watered tonight.” He climbs himself on top of Merlin and presses him down with his full weight, laying his head over his heart while the warlock pretends he can’t breathe. “Not fat,” Arthur complains, and then demands, “pet my hair.”

“Yes, your highness.” His voice is perhaps not the picture of obedience, but he does pet Arthur’s hair regardless.

“I love you,” Arthur tells Merlin’s heart, beating strongly underneath his cheek. Now that it’s been said it seems to want to be said all the time. “I’ve been thinking very much about what kind of king I want to be. What kind of man. I want to build a good kingdom for you,” he confesses, kisses his breastbone. “I want this to be a place you can be proud to belong to, I want you to want to stay here with me forever.”

“You don’t have to build me a kingdom for that,” Merlin stops petting to give a tug, but if he’s aiming to reprimand Arthur it doesn’t work, because that feels nice too.

“I want to anyway,” he says dismissively. “And I’ll be king and I can do as I please and you can’t stop me.”

“Such a tyrant,” Merlin complains, but resumes stroking his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

“I thought about you all day, that you’d be here still when I came back tonight, tucked into my bed. I didn’t like not knowing where you were so long, not at all.”

“I left you the candle,” Merlin says, “did it help?”

“Yes,” Arthur nods, dragging his scruff over Merlin’s chest. “It helped. I would come back to my rooms and I would know you still lived, even if it was somewhere far away. I was gone so much though, I wondered every night I didn’t see it. You should figure out a way I can know where you are all the time. Or you just stay in my rooms all the time,” he suggests generously.

“In your bed?” Merlin asks audaciously, teasing, but Arthur would be fine with that too.

“If it pleases you,” Arthur agrees, and Merlin sputters, embarrassed. Arthur is happy to be the one doing the embarrassing for a change - Merlin is so bold with his feelings. The amount of love in him humbles Arthur sometimes to think of.

He strokes his hand daringly up Merlin’s side that had called to him this morning, the soft fabric of the shirt under his hand not disguising the trim line of his waist. Under his cheek he can feel Merlin’s chest hitch.

“I’ll get you new things,” he promises.

“What?” Merlin squirms.

“New things,” he repeats, “soft things. You like them. I like them too. Remember when you got your shirt for your birthday? You kept touching it, yourself, all the time. Drove me mad.”

“I don’t need new things, Arthur,” Merlin sounds slightly breathless.

“You like them though,” he insists again. “Sensitive,” and he leans up to breathe a hot line across the base of Merlin’s neck. “See?” He reaches to hold Merlin’s own arm out to him, the raised goosebumps, in proof. “Sensitive,” he repeats.

“Uhm,” Merlin squeaks.

“Mouse,” Arthur teases, settling his head down again. “Pet me,” he demands, feeling sleepy.

Merlin doesn’t say anything at all, and his heart is fluttering madly against Arthur’s ear, but he does stroke his very lovely hands down the crown of his head, his neck, across his shoulders, until Arthur feels like he’s melting.

Merlin _could_ stay in his bed all the time, he thinks as he drifts off. It’s a very wonderful idea in general. He feels a huff against his hair, and he might have said that outloud.

It _is_ a good idea though.

When he awakes the next morning, Merlin is staring at him, wide eyed and flushed.

“What?” He croaks. “What is it?”

“Are you hungover?” Merlin asks.

“No?” Arthur sounds out. “Maybe I need some water?” A full cup presses itself helpfully into his hand, twitching enticingly until he takes it, pushing up on his elbows. The water does make him feel more human.

“Better?” Merlin presses.

“Yes, much,” he admits, feeling very on the spot. He is always a little slower in the morning. “Did I do something… untoward?”

Merlin shakes his head quickly, dark curls flopping into his face, and sits up so he is leaning over Arthur. He looks as though he’s steeling himself, and Arthur starts to feel a fission of worry. He opens his mouth, but Merlin shushes him with a kiss. He drops the empty cup.

It’s determined, as though Merlin has something to prove, and his hands are gripped tightly on Arthur’s shoulders. When Arthur lets his mouth fall open though, Merlin’s exploring tongue is sweet and shy. _Oh_ , he catches on. Merlin starts to pull back, but Arthur merely grins up at him and flips them over, falling into the vee of Merlin’s hips as he sprawls ungainly underneath him.

“You could have just said so,” he ignores the unpleasant tug on his bruises, presses their lips together again, lets them sink into the kiss further, delighted. The catch of fabric under his hands as he runs them down Merlin’s ribs to his waist feels familiar, and a sense memory from last night returns. He feels compelled - he brings his mouth down to the enticing hollow of his throat, lets his stubble drag across it before soothing it with a softer kiss, a press of his open mouth. _Sensitive_.

Merlin has gone gratifyingly pliant, little stifled sounds rising out of him unbidden. His hands are locked in Arthur’s shirt again, and he’s so warm, and he looks absolutely gorgeous pressed into Arthur’s bedsheets, in Arthur’s clothes, red from Arthur’s kisses. He can feel his own ugly possessiveness rising to the forefront of his mind, but instead of stifling it he just savors it. He is allowed this, he thinks, Merlin has invited him after all.

It is quite the nicest morning Arthur has ever had in his life, and it puts him in a remarkably charitable mood. So much so that he doesn’t even scream a little when Merlin says he really must go to tell the three ladies he had left in Howden all this news.

“Can’t we just send Lancelot, and Elyan? Leon would go, I’m certain. Wouldn’t Gwen be happy to see them?” He isn’t begging, since that would be undignified. Merlin squirms underneath him, but isn’t willing to push against his bruises to shove him off, which Arthur intends to abuse to the utmost. He can’t leave if he’s pinned to the bed.

“You aren’t regent yet though, doesn’t that have to be official before they can be pardoned, or whatever you need to do? Me also, please - I’m certain I’m not supposed to be seen, given all the hiding I’ve been doing. Is there a ceremony? Will it be terrible and boring and long? Will you suffer greatly?” He asks with entirely too much hope in his voice, still buried under Arthur’s deadweight.

If yesterday is any indication, no, he doesn’t need to do anything other than smile at the gate guard, and Morgana could come back shooting lightning bolts from her hands and be welcomed.

“I don’t see why you have to go back to them though, won’t they be safe? They are all capable.”

“I think they’d be safe, yes, I just think it’s cruel to leave them wondering what’s happening - they care about you too, you know. Well, maybe not Morgause,” Merlin corrects himself. “And, well, it is a little delicate, isn’t it? That Morgana is your half-sister? Do you want her to find out through rumor?”

“I’d prefer to tell her myself,” he admits. “But I cannot leave now of all times.” He unwillingly rolls off of Merlin. For all of his power in this he feels quite powerless. “I know she will be outraged by it, by the lies. I hope she does not hate me.”

“It’s not _your_ doing, none of it! You were siblings before, now it’s just official,” Merlin says with optimism.

“Hm,” he hums, unsure.

“Besides, did you just intend to keep me stuck in your chambers until you are regent? Like a child who’s stolen a puppy and tries to keep it secret?” He chuckles at his own joke, and Arthur doesn’t admit that, yes, that is basically the summation of it.

“ _If_ you must go, maybe you could just tell them what to anticipate? Talk to Morgana, and tell her she… tell her she will always be welcome, and she may choose whatever path pleases her best. To be acknowledged princess, or to have land of her own, I-I will make things right for her. If I can. Tell them, and that men will come to escort them to Camelot so they are left untroubled - if they still want to come. Then return to me?”

“Two days,” Merlin barters. “And then I’ll come back and hide under your bed when George comes in to touch all your things.”

“Are you jealous over him?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“No,” Merlin lies.

It returns some of his good cheer to him. It’s a weakness to need anyone so much, maybe, but even two days seems too long. Two days here, and then two days gone - how can one feel so short and the other feel so long? He sighs, resigning himself.

“Two days,” he agrees. “You’ve only just come back,” the complaint comes out of him before he even realises he’s opened his mouth to speak.

“I know,” Merlin soothes him, “and I would not want to go, but Morgana deserves to know the truth from a friend.” He packs a small bag while Arthur watches unhelpfully, moping, although he won’t admit it.

“I love you,” Merlin reminds him, and Arthur knows he will never tire of hearing it.

“And I love you,” he brings Merlin’s palm to his lips, kisses it, drags him into an embrace. “My heart. Return to me quickly.” He feels Merlin nod tightly against his shoulder.

Watching Merlin leave has not become any easier, but at least Arthur knows he will not be gone long this time.

He does not visit his father.

As he goes through each busy day he realizes freshly anew, over and over, that his father can never be king of these people again. Both because Arthur cannot allow needless blood to be spilled, but also because their loyalty has left Uther so quickly, so readily. They are not his in any way that matters, and perhaps had not been for a very long time.

They are Arthur's, and he will do right by them.


	20. Merlin Fights for the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking!

“He what?” Morgana said icily.

The river burbled happily behind her, the village in the distance far enough away that hopefully they wouldn’t hear any of the shouting that Merlin is sure to come. He had taken Morgana away to tell her what Uther had confessed to the entire great hall, knowing it would only be worse if she heard it from a stranger, or that Merlin had known and not told her. It was only luck that word had either not made it to Howden, or that if it did it had missed her somehow. It couldn’t continue.

But there was not a single thing he could say that would lessen the sting.

“When Nimueh did… whatever she did, to Uther. He spoke to her apparition, as you might figure, and - well, one of the things he said was that. You - uhm, were his… daughter.” He felt like a coward. He forced himself to meet her eyes and stop staring uselessly at the rocky ground between them. At the very least she deserved whatever support he could offer, no matter how small.

Her beautiful face was set in an expression Merlin could not name. If pressed he thought she likely could not name it either.

“Did Arthur know?” She asked, quiet.

“No, he only heard in Willowdale, he wasn’t there on Samhain when it happened. No one knew, apparently.”

“He keeps his own secrets well,” the words tumble out of her. “ _Magic_ to get a child on the queen he loved so dearly. _Hah._ He doesn’t know what love even is. Why-?” She chokes off, red faced, mouth quivering. “Why?” She repeats plaintively, and Merlin has no answers for her. “I already knew he was a monster. This is certainly no worse than anything else he’s done, why does it feel so much crueler? I knew he didn’t love me, not really. He only loved me if I pretended to be something I wasn’t, and the minute I was no longer that lie he would have killed me. He tried. If not for you he would have.”

Merlin follows her pacing with worried eyes. She doesn’t say anything more, but she does scream a loud and heart wrenching cry over the river. Her voice cracks painfully when she speaks again.

“I did not think I could hate him any more! Such a small thing compared to all his other crimes. I was nothing to him. Even as I’ve despised him he’s been important to me, someone I could not afford to ignore. A threat, always. But did he ever think of me as anything at all other than what I meant to his own pride? Was I nothing to him?”

He doesn’t think she’s looking for an answer until she turns to him to demand one.

“I don’t know,” he admits, unwilling to lie to her now of all times. “I thought… to me it seemed he loved you, and Arthur, as much as he could love anything. But then when you spoke against him about Mordred. You must remember,” he looks to the side. The memory of her pale fingers touching her own throat where Uther had gripped her had yet to leave him. “Then I thought - maybe he _doesn’t_ love anything. I have wondered if his heart died with Ygraine, but…”

“I am very nearly Arthur’s age. He betrayed her even while she carried the son he was willing to kill for. Maybe he could never love anything at all other than his own power. And oh, my mother,” she turns away from him again, pacing once more. “Was this willing? Where was my father? My- Gorlois? Sent away by Uther, no doubt! And Morgause, does she know?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin shakes his head, “but it’s clear as day that Morgause treasures you, and has no love for Uther. I don’t think she’d have hidden it from you. She won’t care, and you shouldn’t either!” It comes out of him before he realizes how insensitive it is. He waves his hands, flustered, and she whirls on him. “He’s not worth it!” He shouts, and it feels good to yell it out loud for the world to hear, even if the world is just the two of them. “He’s not worth anything! He’s awful Morgana, just _awful_! He’s not worth a single tear of yours - he would have been lucky to have you as a daughter, but he’s too miserable and bigoted to see it!”

Some of her anger at him fades, and she sniffs a wet cry. He pats his pockets for a handkerchief, but can’t find one, and eventually takes the scarf off of his neck. She buries her entire face in it for a moment before blowing her nose. She hiccups and then throws it furiously in a temper, only for it to flap to the ground merely an arms length away.

“That wasn’t very satisfying,” she complains. “Nimueh was too kind to him. He should be cursed _more_. Maybe the pox. You worked with Gaius, is there a disease worse than the pox?”

Merlin makes a noise that is not quite a word.

“What?” Morgana asks direly. “What now? What else could there possibly be?”

“Arthur will not allow Uther to be king again, he’s sworn it. Gaius is declaring Uther unfit, and he’ll be regent soon officially, very soon. But Nimueh isn’t… _great_? Either? Do you want to shoot some fireballs at some rocks?” He asks. He’s pretty sure it’s the magical equivalent of when Arthur beats the daylights out of a training dummy. Morgana and Arthur are more similar than either of them will admit, and that usually helps Arthur. 

“I want you to tell me what you mean by that! What, does Arthur want the curse lifted? For Uther to live out his days in comfort hidden away? I’ll kill him myself! And Arthur too if he tries!”

“No!” Merlin is making a hash of this. “He’s as furious as you are, of course he is. It’s only that Nimueh shouldn’t get to do whatever she wants either, and Gaius says she won’t settle on this-”

“What does Gaius know about it, she was good to us-”

“She _wasn’t_ good to us! I didn’t say anything before. I should have - I should have said, but I couldn’t bring myself to in front of Gwen, I couldn’t face her with it. Nimueh had plans for us long before she saw the sigil. She was going to sacrifice Gwen to tear a path through the veil when it was weakest on Samhain.” Morgana’s face went even paler in shock, a hand coming up to her mouth to cover her gasp. “I only found out the next day when she had already stolen the sigil instead. We would have been too late to stop her - she doesn’t care about anyone who isn’t magic!”

“ _Merlin_ you should have said something, what-?!”

“I’m sorry! I know I should have, I just couldn’t bear to tell Gwen! Morgause said she didn’t know, but we had to go away from there, it wasn’t safe. I’m sorry.”

Morgana gapes at him for a long moment. “I think I should quite like to shoot some fireballs now.”

And so they do, getting even further from the village - far enough that they won’t be seen, tossing rocks into the air without speaking and blasting them down again. Hours pass, and it takes nearly that long for Merlin to realise he might very well have needed to shoot some fireballs too.

None of it is fair.

He wishes he knew with certainty Arthur’s plans regarding Uther, so he had something to offer to Morgana, some assurance that justice would be seen to. He knows Arthur will not fail in this, but telling Morgana to just have faith will give little comfort at all.

She is sweating and panting by the time she’s merely producing puffs of smoke and sparks. She sits heavily on the ground, trembling with exertion. He lowers himself down to sit next to her, looking up at the night sky while she covers her face with her hands, dark with ash.

“Should I even go back?” She eventually asks, sounding uncommonly defeated. “Uther will be toothless soon enough apparently. Arthur will be king. I’ve been thinking of nothing _but_ Uther, and stopping him - this whole time. Do you know, I swore to Arthur to bring you back to him, on my life. I was ready to fight, to die if I had to, for all of us. I feel so stupid, so useless. What have I accomplished out here? Nothing. What’s left there for me now? What’s the point?” Clear paths cut through the soot on her cheeks where her tears spill over.

“Morgana, no, that’s not true at all! Who was it if not you that was brave enough to stand up to Uther when he was king at the height of his power? You were in irons and chains and you still told the truth, in front of everybody in Camelot - that’s the only reason any of this happened at all, because of your courage! What’s the point, really?” He asks fervently, demanding. “What’s the point if we can’t build something good after Uther’s finally gone? The real work hasn’t even begun - isn’t what we do now the _whole_ point?”

They lay silently side by side for a long while, panting, the stars twinkling merrily above them, uncaring of the troubles below. Merlin finds himself stewing in his mind about Uther once more, unable to stop himself. One of the things he might detest most about him is how both Morgana and Arthur seemed to only find value in themselves for the things they could offer. He wishes there were a way to show her she was more than that - more than her magic, more than her heritage. She was Morgana and that was enough.

He opens his mouth to say all of it, and then closes it, unsure of his welcome now.

“What?” She asks, catching him.

He fidgets. “Want to complain about Uther? Or would you never hear his name again?”

She rolls her head to look at him, considering. On the one hand, he hopes that she never thinks of him again, not even once - but he knows that minds do not work that way. You cannot wish away your own thoughts so easily. He cannot even be rid his own circular thoughts on Uther, and Morgana has far more cause than he to loathe him.

“I should like to complain, I think,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

She doesn’t stop until Morgause and Gwen come looking for them in the early hours of the morning, but Morgana does seem slightly lighter for it, so he can’t regret it, even as his ears ache.

“So you’re going back to Camelot?” Gwen asks as they walk back towards Howden, deftly avoiding the rocks and slag left behind from their target practice.

“Yes, but then I’ll come back again! Or Lancelot will, with your brother. Maybe we all will.” It had been the first thing he told her, and while she had been happy, there had been something flinty in her eyes that warned him Elyan might be in for an earful himself. “Things will be different. When Arthur is officially regent, and he recindes the whole arresty business.”

“Is that the official term?” Morgause taunts, but not meanly.

“Yes,” Merlin says pompously, nose in the air.

“And what is Arthur going to do about Uther?” Morgana asks.

“We’ll figure it out together, but he won’t be king again. You should see the city. I think they’d revolt.” That causes her to smirk at least, dully pleased.

“But why won’t you stay,” Gwen presses him, a far too innocent look on her face. “Wouldn’t it be safer to stay? Aren’t you also in danger of being arresty’d?”

“Uhm,” Merlin stutters, faltering under Gwen’s doe eyes.

“Oh Gwen, don’t you know the guards would never dare to search the prince’s chambers?” Morgana says slyly, pulling gently on one of Gwen’s curls. “Isn’t that right, Merlin?”

 _At least she’s having some fun_ , Merlin sighs, happily resigned to their good natured teasing. Morgana was still blinking at the new morning like she didn’t know what to make of it, and her mocking was only half hearted, but it was there. It might as well have been a whole new world to her, he imagined, and in merely a few more days time Arthur would be Prince Regent, and it would be a new one yet again. For all of them.

They had spent such a long time waiting, and now that change was upon them it came relentlessly and quickly. He felt dizzy with it, bursting with fear and joy until he didn’t really know how to feel at all.

“The next time we see each other,” he says to Morgana as he reaches out to give her hand a squeeze, “magic will be free in Camelot once more.”

“You’ll bring us good news,” she nods, a twist in her smile as she clenches his hand back tightly, desperately. “Tell Arthur to hurry up.”

***

It turns out the ceremony for being acknowledged as regent was not a long one. It was more paperwork and record keeping than anything else, with Gaius making official diagnoses and declarations, and everyone standing around making understanding _hming_ noises and scratching witnessing signatures to reams of parchment.

Or so Merlin is given to understand from Arthur’s telling. Arthur has little tolerance for pointless nattering though - he claims he uses it all up on Merlin and therefore has none left for counselors or nobility.

He unties Arthur’s richly red cape with deft fingers, biting his lip as he nods in agreement. The Prince Regent’s cape, because Arthur is Prince Regent now. How strange.

“Of course, sire,” he says mildly. He had wanted to go, even if he had to stay hidden as a mouse, but Arthur had insisted it was a silly risk with no point. The only danger was boredom. There is a part of Merlin that wonders if since he didn’t see it if it had really happened.

“You would have slept it away,” Arthur insists, refusing to indulge Merlin’s annoyance at being excluded. “Look at the dark circles under your eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

He probably wasn’t wrong, either, was the most annoying thing of all. Flying back and forth and staying up all night with Morgana tossing fireballs around had left him blinking tiredly all day, and the one night of sleep between that and the regency becoming official hadn’t seemed to do enough to catch him up. Even now after a nap he stifled yet another yawn, and Arthur looked unbearably smug.

“What will you say?” Merlin asks instead. “At the feast tonight? I know it’s not a celebration, exactly, but… will you _really_ open Camelot back up to Morgana so quickly? Can it possibly happen that easily? What about her magic?”

“I refuse to wait any longer to do the right thing,” Arthur says clearly. “Camelot has endured long enough. Even if I am not king I do act as one now, and I will not allow my father’s choices to cloud my own when the kingdom has only felt loss and suffering under them. I find I am quite through with waiting, aren’t you?”

Merlin smoothes his hands down Arthur’s tunic, humming thoughtfully. Perhaps it was his tiredness making everything seem like a dream, but the day kept feeling as though it was coming at him in a rapid blur. He had pinched himself more than once. “There is a part of me that doesn’t really believe this is happening still. I always knew you would be king, but it has always felt very far away.”

“And I am still not king,” he corrects. “Now _that_ would have been a long ceremony. You’ll be there for that one,” he adds more gently. “You should be there tonight when I speak. You, more than anyone.”Arthur closes the small distance between them to rest his brow against Merlin’s, breathing in. “I know it’s not what we planned, but will you come and sit beside me?”

“What?” He pulled back, taking in Arthur’s serious expression. “You’re not joking? I can’t though, won’t I get-?”

“In trouble? With who? Me?” Arthur smiled at him then, his eyes shining. “I admit, you are always trouble, but-”

Merlin silences him with the short press of a kiss.

“I want to,” he says against Arthur’s mouth. “I do, but I don’t want to make anything harder on you, or to make the evening go poorly. It would upset people, wouldn’t it?”

“If anyone is upset they can take it up with me,” Arthur said, and Merlin had to stifle a laugh, still fizzy with disbelief. How very like Arthur, but all the same now was probably not the time to be spoiling for a fight. “All they will see is that you have loyally served them, and me, even when it was dangerous, when there was no reward to be had. They shall see you as I do. Besides, you worrywart, it’s Morgana they’re all really on lookout for - you’re a henchman at best.” Arthur clears his throat, and pulls back to look into Merlin’s eyes. “If you are not ready I will not press you. But I will protect you, as you have protected me, and you will have no cause for fear.”

Well. There was little Merlin could say to that. He nodded, and buried his head in Arthur’s shoulder. “Alright then,” he mumbled.

Arthur’s hands were steady as they stroked down his back. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Many of them remember when magic was welcome in Camelot, it won’t be so strange to them. It’s never been gone from other kingdoms at all. I know it’s frightening, but all will be well, I swear it to you.”

“I don’t know how to eat at a high table,” Merlin complains wetly, and feels Arthur’s chest shake with his efforts not to laugh.

He had hidden his magic his entire life for one reason or another.

Using it freely with Morgana and Gwen as they traveled had made him long for it more than ever, and yet he still couldn’t quite picture it. In some ways he understood how Morgana felt. Was this really it? For so much to hinge on the quiet transfer of power from one man to another was unfathomable. Still, it was happening.

None of it felt real at all, except for Arthur’s even breathing, grounding him. He tried to match Arthur’s breaths with his own, in and out. In and out. All would be well. Morgana would be home soon, and Gwen, even Morgause. Gwen would see her brother again, and Lancelot would at last be a knight, so richly deserved. Magic would come back to the heart of Camelot, the nooses cut down, and the very last kindling for pyres would be swept away from the courtyard, unlit. If it was a dream it was a beautiful one.

“Have you fallen asleep?” Arthur whispers against his ear.

“Maybe.” That might explain some things.

“Do you want to have a rest? Or do you want to learn about cutlery?”

“Ugh,” Merlin says with great feeling, laughing and feeling very foolish indeed. This was a good day, he needed to remember, just an overwhelming one. “I don’t want to embarass you, or myself for that matter.”

“You won’t, just watch me. You’ve served me plenty, you already know it all.” He must seem out of sorts, if Arthur isn’t willing to taunt him about his country manners.

“I don’t pay _attention_ ,” Merlin admits, panicked, “it’s all so dull.”

“I knew it!” Arthur snaps victoriously, before catching himself and changing his tone to be more supportive, but Merlin isn’t fooled. “That’s the right attitude, it _is_ dull, you’ll be fine!”

“Oh you’re useless! Do you really think it’ll be fine?” Merlin begs one more time. “No one will be against the ban being lifted? Surely not.” He starts biting at his thumbnail.

“Some, maybe, but Merlin - I won’t bow to my father on it any longer and I certainly won’t bow to them. Enough worry. Calm yourself.” He pulls Merlin’s hands away from his face. “And none of that at the high table, you can’t let them know you’re nervous.”

“That just makes me _more_ nervous, don’t tell me that!”

“Aren’t you happy?” Arthur asks, not letting go. “I admit, I did imagine you would be happy.”

“I am, I am! I think. Well, I mostly feel as though I might be sick.”

“You could throw yourself into my arms and swoon if you like,” Arthur suggests, going so far as to hold his arms open, and Merlin merely stares at him incredulously. “No? Would it _help_ to go over the cutlery?” Arthur asks him, clearly dreading it, unwilling.

“Yes, it might,” Merlin says, finding the idea of tormenting Arthur for the afternoon far more appealing than spending it anxiously with his own thoughts.

And it does help, sitting with Arthur at his table as the sun sinks lower in the sky, casting spots of colors through the stained glass of his windows. Their elbows brush, and Arthur treats this with the same devout seriousness that he does with any battle, all because Merlin said it would ease his mind. Fondness starts overwhelming his nerves, until he’s finding himself doubling over laughing as Arthur gestures grandly with a spoon.

Merlin dresses Arthur, and then Arthur dresses him, digging through his wardrobe until he finds a jacket that fits well enough on his thin frame when they lace it tightly. He turns over in his mind how strange it is to be dressed by a prince, how strange it isn’t - because it’s just Arthur after all.

“Ready?” Arthur asks him.

“Yes,” he says, and he’s telling the truth.

Later he will not be able to recall the walk to the banquet hall, although of course they must have made it. Arthur pulls out his chair for him as though he is a noble lady, which would have been irritating if it clearly hadn’t silenced a few choice words from some of the stuffier nobility. He doubts most of them recognize him, but he’s spilled wine on a couple of them. The hall is packed absolutely full with people of all sorts, and he sees faces he knows lining every corner, none of the due solemnity of the day reflected - instead lighthearted and joyus. Hardly mourning. _Uther would be so offended_ , he thinks, deeply amused.

Gaius and Geoffrey, Leon and a cluster of Arthur’s most favored knights, Lancelot and Gwaine, a face that must belong to Elyan, countless servants he himself has worked besides over the years. Lancelot raises a goblet to him and Gwaine winks, and he can’t stop the pleased flush he can feel heating his cheeks.

Arthur stands, tall and resplendent, lifting a hand until the noise quiets.

“Today it is my honor and privilege to stand before you all, to humbly accept the responsibility of tending to the wellbeing of Camelot while my father is indisposed.” Although he knows it is highly inappropriate, Merlin cannot help but smile back at the happy faces he sees in the crowd. Another sliver of fear fades away under the warm lights of the hall. “Through my life, I have learned many lessons from him, most chiefly amongst them that a man must follow his ideals with a forthright conviction. That through our courage we can face whatever comes. And I ask you to feel no fear as we move forwards, together.”

The hall is still as they listen, and it’s possible that Merlin is making Arthur glow a bit with magic. Or maybe it is just the candlelight gleaming merrily off of his circlet, or Merlin’s own bias but he seems especially bright and golden tonight. His heart thuds in his chest.

“I have learned from him, but I have also learned from the people of Camelot, and my own experiences. I have seen such nobility and strength of character come from the most unexpected of places, asking no thanks or reward. That is why I am choosing to open consideration towards knighthood to all those worthy of it, who would continue to serve with honor, regardless of their bloodlines.” He pauses as a cheer goes up, the knights loudest of all. _Arthur must have spoken to them about this_ , he thinks, their shouting and clapping echoing through the room. “To stand as a shield to the defenceless.” And he raises his goblet in a toast, the hall following.

“That is not the only wisdom I have learned from my people, however. My father believed that magic had no place in Camelot. I would say that it has never left. He would argue that it is a force of corruption, but my own experiences have taught me otherwise. It is a gift and a tool much as any other, and I have met men with magic that yet served the kingdom loyally, even as they would face the direst of punishments for it. Who have saved my own life, and many others here, claiming no victory for themselves. The Griffin, for one, and most recently the wraith at the barrow.” The room is quiet, but to Merlin’s eyes it does not seem a fearful quiet.

“Some of you tonight remember when magic was a welcomed in these walls with celebration, and I hope you recall it with fondness. It is my intent to revise the laws banning the use of any and all magic. Those who work in peace and for the betterment of Camelot and all her people will be welcomed once again as our brothers and sisters.” He raises his goblet once more, and it’s Leon who stands first, but it moves out in a wave until the hall stands alongside Arthur.

“For Morgana,” he toasts, and it is easy to see that many of the castle have not truly put her from their minds, how dearly she was loved clear as they raise their voices. Arthur looks over to Merlin as around the hall people drink deeply, a question in his eyes. Merlin can only nod. “For Merlin,” he toasts again. Lancelot gives a mighty bellowing cheer and Merlin bites his lip to not burst out into laughter. Leon looks slack jawed, and he swears he hears Gwaine crying out ‘ _I knew it!_ ’

When he turns to Arthur to share a smile the prince’s eyes haven’t left him, and the naked affection pierces him in place. For all the gold in the world he couldn’t look away. Just when he thought he had found the limits of his love. He should have known better.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Arthur whispers for his ears only. He raises his voice again with a soppy grin that he can’t seem to shake. “I’ve occupied you long enough, eat!”

The hall is boisterous, and he can see some of the servants breaking off to be the first to gossip already. He wonders if the whole city will know by morning. That might not be so bad.

He blinks and Gwaine is bounding through the room to set himself across from Merlin at the table before he can even take a morsel of food for his plate.

“I knew it,” he says, excited as a child. “Come on, do a trick for us!”

“He’s not here to amuse you, Gwaine,” Arthur reprimands, but Merlin feels his magic bubbling within him, eager to be used. He’s too happy to contain it.

Before he can think better on it he grabs a pitcher of water from the table. “Behold,” he says grandly, holding Gwaine’s undivided attention, and several other nearby noble’s attention besides. “Water - to ale.”

“It’s a miracle,” the bearded man cackles loudly, pouring himself some and drinking without hesitation. “Oh, and it’s even good ale at that!” He leans over the table to press a sloppy kiss to Merlin’s cheek while Arthur swats at him.

“Get away!” Arthur scolds him, but Gwaine is merely replaced by Leon wanting shake his hand, and once the dam is burst neither of them gets a moment of peace for hours. With Arthur at his side no one seems like they want to behead him at all though, and Merlin can only feel the giddy pleasure of the evening, hunger and tiredness abandoning him entirely.

He dutifully conjures flowers of all sorts for every lady daring enough to approach him, noble and servant alike - more and more as the night rolls on. No cup runs dry with Merlin there, either, and he thinks optimistically that might go quite a long way towards good will. Many a person had come to share a drink with him, and Merlin is too pleased to turn any of them away.

Arthur shoves some roast potatoes onto his plate, shouting “Eat!” in his ear over the loud happy noises of the hall. “You’ll regret it tomorrow if you don’t, lightweight.” He’s probably right, a distant part of Merlin recognizes, but then Lancelot is there, and he forgets about it.

There is dancing, and Merlin thinks he might be the one making the music, so he sings along for a bit. Arthur has a second crown shoved on his head on top of his golden circlet, made of ivy and oak leaves, and he thinks he might have made that as well. The wooden beams that span the high ceilings of the hall are dripping with honeysuckle and golden starlight, and he _knows_ that one’s him. Whoops.

Arthur’s arm is heavy and warm over his shoulders, and he thinks he could stop time once more and live in this moment forever, overflowing with happiness.

“I wish Morgana and Gwen were here for this,” he says loudly to Arthur. “Remember when there was the feast, after the Griffin? And everyone came to visit me?’

“Of course,” Arthur nods at him amused, “I was there, Merlin.”

“I thought that I could never be happier than I was then, but you make me happier all the time,” Merlin confesses at full volume, and admires the flush that crawls up Arthur’s neck as he pretends to be unmoved.

“I’ll throw a feast that shames this one when Morgana returns,” Arthur promises him. “It’ll last for days!”

People must be listening in, because yet another roaring cheer goes up at that.

“I think I’ll just go bring them a tray, very quickly, so they don’t miss out,” Merlin insists. He puts some things on a big platter, a little bit of everything he knows they like. “I’ll be right back!” He promises, and presses a kiss onto the top of Arthur’s head, the oak leaves tickling his nose.

With a swoosh he is standing before Morgana and Gwen in their room at the tavern in Howden, and Morgause already has her sword to his neck. The sudden silence makes his ears ring.

“It’s just me,” he says happily, too loudly. “Everything is going really well! I thought you might like some dinner though,” and he doesn’t even drop the platter as he passes it to a gaping Gwen, clad in her night things. “I told Arthur I’d be right back, so I’d better go. I love you all, you are my most dear and wonderful friends!” And he blows a kiss to them as he flops back down into his chair in the hall, rocking dangerously.

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaims. “Where did you go?”

“To Gwen and Morgana,” he reminds him. Arthur must be very drunk indeed, Merlin thinks judgmentally.

“It might be time for bed,” Arthur suggests, dragging Merlin to standing. And that sounds lovely as well, so he goes.

Before he knows it he is laying on Arthur’s bed, soft sheets beneath him and the ceiling spinning above him. Arthur is leaning over him, his oak leaves twisted to the side, and Merlin reaches clumsily to straighten them.

“What a wonderful evening,” Merlin sighs.

“We’ll just see how wonderful you feel tomorrow,” Arthur says ruefully as he tucks the covers up under Merlin’s chin. “Still, I think you’ve made yourself very popular. At least with Gwaine.”

“Jealous,” Merlin sing-songs.

“No,” Arthur protests. “After all it’s not his bed you’re in, is it? It’s me you love, hm?”

“So much,” Merlin agrees. The blankets rustle as Arthur lays next to him. “So much,” he insists again, tugging on Arthur’s arm.

“I know, my heart,” he soothes, laughing, and Merlin thinks he’s never heard a better sound. “I told you it would go well, didn’t I? I promised. All that worry, for nothing.” He presses a kiss to the crown of Merlin’s head. “You’re sure going to regret how well it went in the morning though,” he adds smartly.

Secretly Merlin doubts he’ll regret a single thing, but he mumbles an agreement anyway. Might as well let Arthur have this victory. He was right, after all - it wasn’t nearly as traumatic as Merlin had feared.

It still seemed a bit like an impossible dream, but less so now. People just wanted to be safe, after all, and happy. And they trusted Arthur to lead them there - and he would, and Merlin would help.

He sighs happily, tomorrow couldn’t come quickly enough.


	21. Merlin Fights a Hangover

Tomorrow came too quickly.

Had the sun ever been so offensively bright before? How terrible it was.

“Merlin,” a soft voice called out to him. A gentle fingertip dragged down the bridge of his nose, tickling him. “Merlin, you have to get up, the prince needs his breakfast. And his boots shined, and his armor tended to - hurry up, you’re late.”

Arthur can get his own damned breakfast, he thinks, but from the laughter he might have said it out loud. Pushy hands roll him over, and he fights to keep the blankets over his head and fails - but succeeds in keeping his eyes determinedly shut.

“No no, drunkards don’t get to lay in bed all day,” he’s scolded. “Look who was right yet again. No appreciation for my wisdom.”

Merlin opens his mouth to complain, and then thinks better of it. If he’s quiet maybe Arthur will think he’s asleep. He snores convincingly.

“I know you aren’t asleep, I can see you. Right now. Hello, my Merlin.” He unwillingly peers out of one eye to see a smudge that might, maybe, be Arthur shaped. The blondish blob holds out a cup of water and a bit of bread.

“I thought you needed me to get your breakfast?” Merlin reaches for the cup, closing his eyes again as he drinks. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

“You aren’t actually my manservant anymore, if you remember,” Arthur says dryly.

“This is why I don’t drink,” he whines.

“Oh, I thought all the singing was why you don’t drink.” He doesn’t need to see his face to know Arthur is grinning mercilessly at him as he takes the cup from Merlin’s limp hand. “Come on, the day awaits and doesn’t care how much revelry you indulged in last night.”

Last night.

Merlin flings himself to sitting with a gasp. A bright smile comes to his face before he can stop it, and a disbelieving laugh spills out of him despite his aching head. He beams at Arthur, who smiles indulgently back at him. “So that wasn’t a dream?”

“Which part? The singing - I’m afraid not. The water into ale? _Very_ much not a dream, as you can attest for yourself.”

Merlin throws himself at Arthur, who catches him with an _oof_. “Arthur!” He shouts joyfully. “Arthur, you really did it!” And he gives him what is probably not a very sophisticated kiss, and then another two in quick succession to his cheek. Once he’s done that he leaps over the side of the bed to run to the window. Camelot looks exactly the same, but now everyone knows he can do magic - and it’s _fine_. “Look!” He gestures, hopping from one foot to the other on the cold stone floor.

“At what?” Arthur comes up behind him.

“I don’t know!” Merlin shouts, throwing his arms around Arthur again. “All of it, isn’t it beautiful? Arthur,” he says, over and over.

“Alright, yes, calm down,” but he’s just as happy, Merlin can tell. “We have a busy day ahead of us, don’t spend all your energy now.”

“What are we doing?”

“ _We_ ,” Arthur states imperiously, “are going to attend an overdue knighting ceremony for Lancelot, so that when he finally gets to greet Gwen again he does so under Camelot’s flag. And then this afternoon _we_ are going to convince people that magic is wonderful, and that they should want to keep it around. You up for it?”

“Yes, I rather think I am,” Merlin breathes out.

“But maybe you should rinse your mouth out a bit first,” Arthur says frankly, “before you kiss me again at least, really Merlin.”

He is in much too good a mood to be offended.

It is a far fresher Merlin who has also been bullied into eating three bites of breakfast who attends Lancelot’s knighthood ceremony.

Arthur gives what he is sure is a lovely speech about the knights code, and Merlin sways in place while Gwaine looks at him far too knowingly. When Lancelot rises as Sir Lancelot, however, no one claps more loudly than Merlin. His ears ring with it, and he might regret the crushing, back slapping hug he gets later, but it’s worth it when he sees his friend’s proud grin.

“Well deserved, Sir Lancelot,” Merlin praises him, and it’s all he manages to say before they are swarmed by the other knights, wanting to welcome their newest brother in arms.

Arthur is relentless, however, and there is only a brief time for congratulations and shaking hands before Leon is being set to ready some men to depart for Howden. Merlin will be happy to have Morgana and Gwen welcomed back, but he’s still somewhat taken aback at the speed.

“You’re certainly in a hurry,” he says, as Arthur sends missives and messengers out from the stables to finally recall the knights still searching hopelessly for Morgana.

“They should have never been away so long, nor spread so thin.”

There is something in the timbre of Arthur’s voice that ignites a worry in him despite the joy of the day. “And why is that?” Merlin presses when no more is forthcoming.

“Camelot will be in a period of transition,” Arthur says lowly, just between themselves. “It’s not a secret, and there is little doubt that there are those who would take advantage of it if they can. We have had enemies lurking always, and I am not yet truly king - if there is a chance that the kingdom is divided within it will only invite more trouble from those outside. Cenred, for one, as you can imagine.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, feeling very small suddenly. He reached out to stroke down the nose of a nearby horse. For all that he had told Morgana that what came next was what mattered most of all, he himself hadn’t given it much thought. Too excited to think past the repeal of the ban. He hadn’t considered that Camelot had enemies outside their walls, which was shortsighted. Of course they did. Unpredictable Nimueh sat heavily in his thoughts once more as well.

“Merlin,” Arthur says softly, “there’s no need for that, not yet. We have time. We’ll make ourselves ready. No one is starting any marches in winter.”

“Is that why we need to make people see the benefits of having magic back in the kingdom?”

“Part of it,” Arthur agrees honestly, “it’s not something we can afford to ignore. I’d like it if you never had to fight, but we can’t have our own citizens fear your magic if it comes to that, either. Just… don’t let it diminish your happiness, please. People need to get used to it, and see that it can do good, and you can show them that.”

Merlin swallows. It’s all he’s wanted, and he won’t let Cenred or anyone else take it from him now. “Of course,” he says eventually. “I have some ideas, anyway.”

“Yes?” Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he nods more decisively. “You’ve never been to the castle laundry have you? And can I have some of the gardens?”

“You can have whatever you want,” Arthur replies, and then flushes. “For magic. Projects.”

Merlin bites his lip, amused. “Well, what are we waiting for?” He spins on his heel to head back into the castle, only to see a small crowd pretending poorly not to watch the two of them. He sees Bram duck back around a corner of the stable and he has a mix of sadness and hilarity rise up in him that he isn’t quite sure what to do with. He coughs politely. “Did you want to see some magic?”

It turns out at least Bram does, and when a series of colorful bubbles spark into existence and Arthur merely watches fondly a lot of other people do as well. “Go on, pop one,” he encourages the stable boy. He touches one himself and a musical bell chimes as it bursts. Another color, another note, and Bram gets the idea, popping them in a rapid atonal succession. A musician he is not, but at least he’s having fun.

He keeps his chin up as he and Arthur head side by side back to the castle, determined. A handful of serving girls who were at the feast last night still have their flowers he made for them put in their hair, or tied brightly to their aprons strings. He waves at them and they wave back, and that alone feels like a victory.

He walks into the laundry on a mission, and he can see the moment they realise it’s him - and that he’s brought royal company. “I’m here to do the laundry,” he announces grandly, and Arthur muffles a snicker behind him, “because you all deserve a day off,” and he mimics the witch he had seen so long ago doing Idina’s laundry, the same trick he had done ever since. It was only in Camelot where it hit home exactly how much work went into it, and as kind as these women had always been to him they _did_ deserve a day off. With that in mind it was easy to flick his finger, and with it a wave snapped through the room. All the clothes flapped through the air awash with bubbles, and then fluttered down into neat little piles, folded and dried.

“Go see your families, or go to the hall - I’m going to turn whole _barrels_ of water into ale for the celebration,” Merlin promises. None of them move quite yet, staring at him. He waves at Cecily.

“Merlin,” Arthur leans in, “what celebration?”

“You _said,_ ” Merlin hisses back. “When Morgana comes back there’s going to be a feast that lasts for _days_. And everyone’s invited,” Merlin says loudly, turning back out the door, not waiting for even a moment. “What bit of the gardens can I have?” He asks as Arthur catches up to him.

“What bit would please his highness the most?” If Merlin didn’t know that his audacity was one of Arthur’s favorite things about him he might be more concerned. “We can’t _really_ feast for days. Have to save something for winter, honestly Merlin. But… might as well make it a tourney,” he says consideringly. “If we’re celebrating anway. More will want to aim for knighthood I’m certain.”

“You just want an excuse for a fight, you can’t fool me.”

“Ah, caught out,” Arthur rolls his eyes, shoving his shoulder into Merlin’s as they walk. When he sees a cart about to topple over he just gives it a nudge to straighten it, and all the apples that were about to spill form a tidy little pile back in their crate. “Nice,” Arthur praises him, and Merlin feels like he might float straight up into the sky. He bobs upwards alarmingly, and with a sharp ‘ _eep’,_ grabs hold of Arthur to force himself back down to the ground.

He refuses to make eye contact or acknowledge the hand Arthur keeps fisted tightly in the back of his tunic until they reach the gardens and his heart has calmed slightly. He clears his throat and says, “Here we are,” inanely.

“I thought you’ve been practicing?” Arthur asks him, alarmed.

“I have been! I’m just happy, that’s all!”

Arthur gives a furtive look around the garden, and finding it empty presses Merlin back against the stone alcove they are near. He leans in and looks into his eyes for a heavy moment before he nudges their mouths together, softly at first, before deepening to something more urgent that tugs at Merlin’s heart. He pulls back and gives another glance around, suddenly appearing very smug indeed while Merlin lets out a shaky exhale.

“Just checking,” he says, and the warlock looks above his head to see several out of season flowers blooming and swaying in a nonexistent breeze. Arthur slowly pushes away from him, unfairly handsome as his smirk turns into something gentler.

“Well, it was hardly a secret, now was it?” Merlin says, straightening his shirt.

“No, I suppose not,” and if Arthur takes his hand in his as they walk through the gardens it’s nobody’s business but theirs. “Me too,” he says quietly.

This deep in the autumn there isn’t as much color to be had as in earlier seasons, but the gardens are still green, and it’s peaceful when he tilts his head up into the sun. The scent of winter coming makes him long for warm fires. Technically he’s not in hiding anymore. Will he have to leave Arthur’s rooms? That has to be breaking _some_ law or royal decorum, but on the other hand that bed is the softest bed in the world and it also has Arthur in it. Hm. Maybe he just won’t mention it.

“What are you looking for anyway?” Arthur asks.

“Hm? Oh, here? Just some space - there are some herbs that would be helpful to grow closer to the castle. Gaius needs things all the time for medicines, but some of them won’t thrive in the conditions here.”

“But you can grow them?”

“Oh, they’ll grow,” Merlin assures threateningly while Arthur huffs in amusement.

***

“They aren’t yelling _at_ each other, I don’t think,” Gwen says to him as they watch the spectacle of Arthur and Morgana reuniting the next day. “I think they’re yelling _with_ each other.”

Merlin nods wisely.

“Should we intervene?” Morgause asks them, concerned.

“No, this is how they express themselves.” He wonders if it would be tactless to mention that it was probably an effect of having Uther as a parent. Probably, but this was the audience for it if there ever was one. “Uther,” he just says, leadingly. Her face pinches in disgust.

“And he really repealed the magic ban?” Gwen asks excitedly, but continues before he could answer. “Oh, and we brought the platter back with us, too, I wanted to tell you before I forgot. It was one of the nice ones from the king’s table, so I didn’t want to leave it behind. It wouldn’t fit in a pack so we had to tie it to one of the horses.”

“Wait, what platter?”

“From when you came with it? Don’t you remember? You were very,” and she made a wobbly gesture. Sure enough, when he looks over at the horses one had a shiny silver platter half wrapped with a bedroll.

“That actually happened?!” He thought it was just a bit of drunken fancy.

“ _Yes_ ,” Morgause says judgmentally. “How did you even do that?”

Merlin knew his inability to explain the things he did drove her and Morgana both straight up a wall with frustration so he didn’t want to admit he had no idea. “Uhm,” he started, but she just scoffed knowingly. Everything she thought was true though, so he just shuffled on his feet looking up at the sky until she looked away from him.

“Lancelot is a knight now - and there’s going to be a tourney for other people who want to try, too,” he says in obvious distraction. That sets Gwen off gushing about how wonderful it is, which it _is_ , so he doesn't even feel poorly about it. Morgause looks at Arthur with an uncertain twist to her mouth. He’s still not sure what she thinks a lot of the time, other than that he trusts she wants to stay close to Morgana. His fears about Nimueh have never quite extended to Morgause, temperamental and sharp as she can be at times, and he hopes his faith isn’t misplaced.

Their return is a welcome one, and the celebrations Arthur had promised didn’t confine themselves to the banquet hall this time. The merrymaking spilled out through the castle and into the courtyard - the barrels of ale Merlin had delivered on already opened at dusk, a bright bonfire fed with bundles of sage raging where there used to be a pyre. He wasn’t sure if it was just him who found that funny or not, but every time someone tossed in a handful of herbs as an offering he had to fight an ever so slightly vindictive smile. Flowers and garlands hung high with the banners as though it was Beltane, and the tables were heavy with fruit and roast vegetables from all seasons, courtesy of Merlin and the castle cooks. He’d been run off of his feet, even his usually inexhaustible magic feeling strained, but it was well worth it.

Merlin does not drink a single sip this time around, having learned that lesson far to recently to have forgotten it. He’s smashed in tightly between Arthur and Morgana as they talk loudly around his head.

“Have you been to see him?” She asks. It’s odd to think that even now Uther is sat somewhere in his rooms, and he tries not to linger on it.

“No,” Arthur replied flatly, and Merlin wonders if he should politely excuse himself. “Are _you_ going to go?”

“No,” she mirrors his tone mockingly, lowering her voice an octave. “What are you going to do about him? Merlin says you don’t think Nimueh should get to do as she pleases.” He feels very told on, stuck between them as he is.

“And so she shouldn’t, it’s not for her to decide,” he says, keeping a heavy arm pinned over Merlin so he can’t squirm away.

“But you won’t allow him back on the throne, even if he regains his mind - so what will you do? Kill him?” To his ears she sounded just a pinch too pleased, considering Arthur was still his son.

“No,” Arthur sighs, “or maybe. I’ve been thinking deeply on it. Haha, yes, very funny, thank you Morgana." He stops while she gasps, rolling his eyes. "I want a trial for him. Or something like it anyway. Judgement.” He sips carefully at his goblet.

“He was the _king_ , under what law would you trial him? For what exactly?” But she was no longer mocking. Merlin longed to know the answer as well.

“I don’t properly know. There used to be folkmoots - witans to declare the king when succession is muddled. Geoffrey says there might be basis to dethrone one, too, and I’m having him look into it. Have a judgement done on his rule. Take his crown fully in truth, curse or madness or no.”

Morgana is silent for a long moment, mulling it over, leaning against Merlin’s other side. Caught between them he is warm, and he watches the fire spark in the breeze.

“Would that not open the door for _you_ to be denied the throne?”

“Yes,” he says evenly, “but if I cannot show myself worthy of it then perhaps I don’t deserve it. I would need to find a way to convince them that they shouldn’t reinstate him if they had the chance.”

At that Merlin can’t quite hide his snort of amusement.

“Look around,” he says, waving a hand. “Who would choose to reinstate him?” Lancelot and Gwen were on the other side of the fire, dancing with their heads bowed low together, whispering. Gwaine met his eyes and gave him a wave from where he was attempting to chat up an unamused Morgause while Elyan and his giant of a friend watched on, Leon shaking his head. The bounty of food and drink was matched only by the amount of happy faces in the crowd, and Merlin could feel their joy and love suffusing the air. It _felt_ like magic, but not of his making, maybe a working of all of theirs. Not a one of them would want to turn back time to Uther.

“Throwing a good party does not actually translate directly into making a good king, Merlin,” Arthur snorts.

“They love you,” Merlin argues, “and you love them. And that does make a good king.”

“It’s a nice idea, in theory,” Morgana adds softly. “But I won’t allow for a sliver of chance of him back on the throne. Arthur, I would kill him myself. Know that.”

“I do know,” he says blankly, spinning his goblet between his fingers, his ring gleaming in the firelight. “We can’t have Camelot divided. We are too weak to outside enemies to fight amongst ourselves. If he is dethroned he’ll have to be executed.”

“Then why don’t you just have done with it? I would do it, I would never speak a word of it, Arthur-” She whispers feverishly and Merlin bites his tongue while Arthur interrupts her.

“There is a _difference_ , Morgana. Between judgement and execution and murder. I will not become him, and neither will you.” And by his tone, that is the end of it.

Morgana’s jaw is set as she turns to stare into the fire, but she speaks no more.

“We’ll show them,” Merlin says to her. “That magic can do beautiful things for the kingdom. So they understand the harm that Uther has done, that he was wrong about it. That innocent people were killed for no just cause. We need to be better than him to build something, well, better,” he says clumsily. “And we will. No one would wish him back.”

“If we remove whatever Nimueh did or if he dies before she’s satisfied she might make an enemy of herself too,” Morgana reminds them, but it sounds by rote.

“I won’t be hostage to her whims either,” Arthur says. “We won’t enable torture, not for anyone. I know I can never truly understand how angry you are, and how much I have considered letting it stand as well - but please understand why there are depths that we must turn away from.”

Merlin grips Morgana’s hand in his, and Arthur places his over both of theirs before he gets up, giving them a lingering look before he leaves them to themselves.

“Do you think that’s the right choice?” She asks him bluntly after her brother has made his way to Leon.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, giving it dedicated thought, “but I trust Arthur, and I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes of the past. Nothing will grow if the ground is rotten.”

He had known it, but now he _understands_ the rowan tree so utterly completely and with such swiftness that he doesn’t hear what Morgana says in reply, feeling foolish and blind. It’s nothing so complicated at all, it’s unbearably simple for all his endless musings on it.

“Sorry, what?” He mumbles.

“Oh, nevermind,” she huffs, acting more lighthearted than she is. “Tell me, how has it been? Doing magic all day?”

That is something he is more than happy to go on and on about, and so he does. Her stiff back relaxes a bit as she listens to his rambling, and he tries to make her laugh as he regales her with all the small things he’s done fearlessly in the few days they had been apart.

Nevertheless, his mind is heavier as they part ways late in the evening.

“I think we both know I can’t just keep doing little tricks and things to amuse people forever,” Merlin murmurs as they walk back to Arthur’s chambers far later, a little magelight leading their way. He drags his travel bag with him, brought back to Camelot with the horses.

“I know,” Arthur answers with a tinge of resignation. “When training the new knights begins I’d like you to attend as well. They’ll all of them need to learn how to fight beside magic. Morgana too, if she’s willing. Maybe even Morgause.”

When the door is shut tightly and Merlin has helped to unlace Arthur’s tunic and slip it over his head he continues. “I don’t mind that I’ll be fighting, I promise. I’ve been practicing… I don’t want people to be afraid of me though,” he admits quietly.

“The knights know you, they won’t be afraid of you. Magic is used in other kingdoms, we’ll have to be ready anyway - it’s good for them.”

He wonders if Arthur knows his magic is, well, _unusual_. The prince’s experiences with magic have _also_ been very unusual after all. He lights the fire without a word, and considers how to talk about it without sounding unbearably full of himself.

“I’ve been practicing,” he says again, swallowing. “Here, watch,” and when Arthur turns he shows both his hands as he picks up a dagger from his desk. He breaks it down into little pieces, just like he had in the hall before he fled with Morgana and Gwen, and then reforms it like new. “Gwen taught me a lot about the metals, so I can fix them now,” he explains. Feeling daring he presses the tip of the dagger into his forearm, gesturing for Arthur to calm down when he sits up in alarm. Not a single drop of blood wells. “And look, see that?”

Arthur runs his fingers over the unmarked skin, taking the dagger from him and setting it far away out of reach. “Warn me next time, thank you,” he complains.

“Want to see me stick my hand in the hearth?”

“Not really, no,” Arthur sputters incredulously.

“It won’t burn me, seriously - watch!” And Arthur follows him reluctantly as he brushes his fingers through the center of the fire, sifting through the white hot ashes. When he takes his hand back it is filthy, but intact and cool. “I can do more,” he says, “I can catch an arrow now, and make a shield out of the air.”

“Merlin, that’s enough,” Arthur says, sounding deeply troubled, “how exactly did you learn these things?”

“Carefully, I promise. Gwen was very responsible about it all.”

“I’ll have to do something for her,” he says vaguely, sitting down heavily. “Does _Gwen_ want to be a knight?”

“That’s not the only way to reward people,” Merlin teases.

“I… don’t like that I was not there while you learned these things,” Arthur admits. “Or that you had to learn them at all.” He pinches the bridge of his nose the way he always does when he’s frustrated. “I’m glad you can defend yourself,” he gets out eventually.

“Well, I can do a bit more than that,” Merlin hedges. “I’ll be useful - so useful no one can deny it. They’ll see what magic can do, and I want to show you, but maybe we ease the knights into it? So they aren’t afraid of me? Defensive things first - what do you think? The small stuff?” It pours out of him in a rush.

Arthur stands and pulls him into his arms. “I don’t care if you’re useful, _Merlin_ , please tell me you know that?” He waits for Merlin to nod. “Small stuff,” he scoffs and pushes Merlin’s head down into his shoulder and holds it there insistently while Merlin tries not to squirm and snicker. “Don’t laugh at me, lets see how you like it if I just started randomly stabbing myself. Learn some tact Merlin, honestly, what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Sorry,” he apologizes halfheartedly. “I just wanted to show you - I’ll be alright, you don’t have to worry about me. And I know you love me, but I _will_ be useful.”

“None of that will stop me from worrying about you,” Arthur lets him up, but not out of the circle of his arms. “That’s not really how it works.”

And no, Merlin knows it’s not. He looks into Arthur’s eyes, leans in for a bare brushing of their lips, lets his head fall back down to his shoulder with a sigh. He forces himself to relax against the strong line of Arthur’s body, not sure when he became quite so tense and frantic feeling. _It was a good day_ , he reminds himself. He flutters his eyes closed, and unbidden another thought occurs to him.

“Oh, I had something I wanted to give you.” He pulls away to dig through his bag, finding his little book. “I wrote to you, while I was away.” Suddenly shy, Arthur has to give the book a tug to get it out of his hands. “Some of it is the things I’ve learned. It might be helpful to you. Some of it is just,” and he hums vaguely, “to you, you know? Because I missed you.”

Arthur thumbs through the book silently, his face soft in the firelight. “You don’t have to go away again,” he promises.

“I was wondering about that,” he tries to laugh it off, but he knows his voice is giving him away. “Now that I’m not really in hiding any more. If I should go back to Gaius.” He refuses to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“Do you want to go?” On the other hand, Arthur’s voice gives _nothing_ away, and Merlin ruminates briefly on the unfairness of it.

“No,” he finally says, unsure why he feels so afraid of it.

“Then don’t go,” Arthur says as he pulls back the covers on his bed, looking back at Merlin as he settles in, normal as can be. Calm and steady as he pats the empty space next to him. Merlin closes his eyes, breathes in and then out, feeling boneless when the invisible tension leaves him.

And it’s just as simple as that.

He’s not precisely looking _forward_ to working with the knights, but he’s not dreading it so deeply either.

Of course, when Morgause is one of the victors of the bouts over the next days he revises his opinion for a third time. She stands proudly between Elyan and Gwaine, with Percival looming a whole head above her, Morgana and Gwen cheering wildly for her. His nerves don’t come from any deeply hidden fear of her, he finds - merely of what will come when she and Arthur really put their heads together.

It’s sure to be just _awful._


	22. Arthur (A Group Effort) Fights the Afanc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the really wonderful and encouraging comments, I can't thank everyone still reading enough!

Arthur only visits his father twice before his execution.

He is reduced, his clothes hanging off of him, skin as thin and dry as paper, and his eyes flick constantly between Arthur and a figure that only he can see. He begs Arthur for Gaius, for his magic, to be rid of her. ‘ _It would be worth the cost,’_ he says, and Arthur leaves, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache.

He is not sure what he feels. He has done his mourning for his father, had finished grieving for him long before this moment. The towering figure in his earliest memories who was the first to teach him about what it meant to be a king has been dead longer than he existed, if he ever did. There is an element of shame in him, for how little he cares. That it will merely be a relief to be done with, to have his ghost leave Camelot to heal.

As far as he is aware Morgana had not deigned to see Uther at all. He hopes whatever choice she makes is the right one for her. They do not speak of it, and if she confides in Morgause Arthur does not know.

Snow had been falling and they had entered the new year when Arthur had at last called for the witan, confident in Geoffrey’s findings of precedent and in the efforts they had made for their argument. However, convincing them of Uther’s unsuitability had been terrifyingly, upsettingly simple. Not a one of them would contest the dethroning, nor Arthur taking his place.

If he wanted to flatter himself he could say it was due to his own actions, his open affection for his people - and it was, in part. He was not blind to opinions on him, or the stories already told of him. He could not afford to be. Another part was due to Morgana, an intimidating Court Sorceress and beloved princess returned, sitting by his side as he spoke, as was her right.

He also knew that a third part still belonged to Merlin, who had not attended the discussions at all.

Merlin, who had more than made good on his word to make himself undeniably useful. Too much so. Overeager to help and mend the perception of magic even as Arthur tried to reign him in, to argue that they must not grow overly reliant upon it. Word spread quickly of his feats, the return of every scrap of magic Uther had tried to stamp out in one man.

Arthur had looked at the aldermen and the nobility who had answered his call to the citadel, even in the deepest chill of winter, and he saw the admiration, the covetousness of what the warlock could do - as well as the fear. He understood better now what Merlin had once tried to tell him, in his rooms, and even earlier, when he had spoken of having magic the first time. How much that must have weighed on him. It only reminded him anew of Merlin’s bravery that he persisted throughout it all.

Arthur would take that worry from him if he could.

But there were many who had memory of magic in Camelot, after all, and Merlin’s magic was something other entirely. He had confessed to Arthur that it had _always_ been different, but had only grown more so after their flight from Uther in the great hall.

He could raise crops from the ground, mend a stone wall with a thought - with a wave of his hand he could turn a ballista bolt or a legion of enemy swords to dust. It was easy for those who did not know him to imagine the terrible other side of that coin. To rot crops in the field, age that same wall to crumbling and defenceless, to hurt instead of save. Men would go to war for such power.

Merlin would hate the very thought of it.

Even without him behind Arthur’s shoulder in the witan his shadow loomed in their minds, as plain as day. Powers that could build or conquer kingdoms hinging on Merlin’s unshakable devotion to Arthur.

And so when he spoke openly about why Uther was unfit to be king, why his crown should be removed fully and in truth, they bowed. It is too easy, and it feels unfair. That he is merely another tyrant, just one who stands under a false mask of civility.

Morgana is the one to tell him to take it as the gift it is.

“They will learn your sincerity in time,” she promises, “so don’t make more trouble for us now, no matter what your pride says.”

“It’s not about my _pride,_ ” he says through gritted teeth. But he shoves it down anyway, for there is much work to be done.

The second time he sees his father is when he grimly asks Merlin to break the magic upon him, so he can face his death with clear eyes. If he means it to be a gift or a punishment he is not certain.

The less said on that the better.

He is crowned king.

The sound of the axe is no different on his father’s neck than it is on a sorcerer’s.

***

“I really don’t need all this,” Merlin repeats, ducking away from the harassed looking royal tailor.

“I won’t have people thinking I don’t value you,” Arthur insists. Again. It had been a point of contention, but as Arthur had taken to reminding Merlin he was _king_ now, so the warlock had to do as he said.

Not that it ever quite seemed to work out that way in practice.

He felt poorly enough that Morgana was Court Sorceress, leaving Merlin vaguely position-less. He hadn’t seemed bothered, and no ill feelings ever came up between the two of them, but Arthur hoped dearly that Merlin understood his reasoning.

Morgana could navigate the maneuvers of the court in a way Merlin could not. And there was a different title Arthur wished him to hold eventually, if one kept an eye on the distant future. Unwillingly his eyes fixed on Merlin’s slim fingers, naked and unadorned - and then he cursed himself for getting too far ahead of himself by a league and a half. There is having an eye for the future and then there whatever was going on in _his_ overreaching fool head.

Yet when he dragged his eyes back up he could only think how Merlin’s dark curls would fall fetchingly around a bright circlet of his own. He had given his mother’s sigil away long before they had exchanged a single kiss. His wanting for Merlin to be kin to him by whatever method was not a new one, to bind to him in a more tangible way, but somehow his heart still thudded with the revelation of it time and time again.

Instead he chose to look out the window, feeling safer that way.

Perhaps he could invent a title for Merlin in the meantime. Nothing that would send him away though, so no land. Not that he’d know what to do with it anyway, so that was out of the running twice. And nothing that would keep them apart all day, so nothing with any real duties. He sighed, perhaps not.

“If you’re bored we could just leave,” Merlin said hopefully.

“Something in green, in addition, I think,” Arthur smiled widely at the tailor, showing too many teeth, “and on the blue perhaps we can discuss some embellishments. Constellations would be fitting, wouldn’t they, Merlin? In gold, maybe? How do you feel about hats?”

Merlin scowls, darkly offended and Arthur feels his mood lift.

A knock on the door provides Merlin all the distraction he needs to make a bid for freedom once more.

“Sire,” Gwaine sticks his head in the room, sounding the barest acceptable level of deferential. “Gaius would like to see you both.”

“We’ll come right away,” Merlin says before Arthur can even open his mouth to respond.

“Going that well?” The knight asks the room at large.

“Impeccably,” it’s the tailor who answers dryly, making Merlin flush and flee, squeezing awkwardly through the doorway and Gwaine, who doesn’t budge an inch. The knight beams at Arthur, who rolls his eyes as he follows.

Gwaine throws an arm around Merlin’s shoulders after they catch up, and Arthur merely plucks it off, shoving him like he’s still a boyish green squire instead of king of Camelot. He knows that’s the only reason Gwaine’s done it though, and Merlin laughs at the pair of them. The tussle continues as they fight to be first to enter the physician’s chambers.

“Your Majesty,” Gaius’s voice is at once blank and deeply judgemental in the manner than only he seems to manage.

“Gaius,” Merlin says cheerfully, “Morgana, Morgause, hello!”

Morgana smiles tightly back at them, and something catches in his throat at the strained look on her face.

“What is it?” He demands.

“A plague,” she says frankly, “or something made to look like one. Four were found dead this morning, and more are ill. Gaius has us making poultices and that seems to be taking care of it for now - but more keep coming.”

“Something like one? Do you suspect it is not so plain?”

“Uther’s been dead for almost a month now. I think that wherever she is word has certainly reached Nimueh by now and she is displeased her vengeance has been cut short.” It’s Morgause who answers him bluntly. “It has the scent of her magic.” Merlin has pushed past him to look at the herbs and crystals spread out, the shallow bowl of water rippling as he clumsily catches his hip on the corner of the table.“Given her skill set and how it’s spreading, we should check the wells, the water supplies,” she continues.

“That seems too straightforward - why would she make it so obvious?”

“To let you know she can come and go as she pleases,” Merlin says slowly, pondering. “To make a point.”

It would be a stretch to say that Arthur was surprised, but this was still unwelcome. Four dead already, just to say hello. “Gwaine, you’ll go assemble some knights, and get Leon. We will need to begin searching before this spreads further. Do you have any idea what to anticipate - what could be causing this?”

Morgause shakes her head tightly, looking at Morgana, who shrugs one elegant shoulder, more affected than she appears. “I’ve done my best to scry for it, but all I see is black water. Send someone with magic with any search parties.”

“Is that an advisement from my Court Sorceress?” His voice is teasing but the question is not.

“Yes,” she says decisively.

“Gaius, can you continue here, or do you need assistance with the poultices?”

“The sooner this is stopped the better, Alice and I can manage for a while yet, sire. Go, all of you, and clear out of this old man’s chambers.” He sends them away, already busy with his own work. Alice putters alongside him, and Arthur is glad for another healer returned.

“Morgause, alert the guards, have them stand at the wells and water taps. If that is indeed how it’s spreading people can’t be drinking it. We’ll gather again at the entrance to the water source. You’ll need to lead one of the scouting parties.” She agrees with a sharp nod, the red of her knight’s cloak snapping around her heels as she goes. “Morgana-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” and she’s gone in a blink, her soft courtly slippers barely making a sound. Merlin looks after her, bemused, and loops his fingers with Arthur as they walk.

The next time they see her, in front of the water supply, she’s clad in boots and her tightly woven chain mail, her hair pulled back in a practical plait. Gwen stands behind her, smiling placidly and carrying a sword of her own.

“This wasn’t what I meant,” Arthur says, but knows better than to argue.

“Oh, wasn’t it?” She flutters her eyelashes innocently at him. He can hear Merlin snickering, and decides to be the bigger man and ignore it.

They break into three groups, well practiced by now, and begin their search.

Excalibur shines as brightly as a torch in the dark.

They do not find what they seek, but when they have to turn back for the day Elyan does find _something_. He turns it over in his hand under the torchlight - what seems to be the shell of an egg. It is heavy, a slick and foul smelling membrane lining the inside, and covered with runic markings on the outside.

Morgause taps one marking with a click of her fingernail.

“The mark of Nimueh,” she confirms. It’s a somewhat gloomy walk back.

There isn’t really room for all of them, huddled around Merlin’s magic book of creatures, long ago rescued from the library horde. Arthur finally gives up his space to Morgana and her sharp elbows. It’s not as though having a crowd reading a book will make it read any faster.

Gwen and Lancelot sit together on one side of the table, hands clasped together, and Gwaine looks out his window onto the dark city below. He’s not sure why his chambers are the ones being used for this but it means there is plenty for him to do at his own desk.

Hours later they figure it’s likely to be something called an Afanc, a creature of earth and water, given shape by Nimueh. Able to be killed only by magic, they make plans for tomorrow. His room slowly empties as the hour grows later, only Morgana lingering.

Merlin readies for bed with the comfort of one who has lived with both of them for months, and for once Arthur can’t find himself to be jealous over it. He’s just glad they had each other. It makes him feel very grown up, and then very immature for feeling grown up about it. He’s _king_.

“Have you been well?” Arthur asks her, voice pitched low and quiet, able to be ignored. “We haven’t spoken of things since…”

“The execution?” She says easily. He nods, eyes on Merlin as he clearly makes himself busy to give them some privacy. “Arthur… enough of my life was defined by Uther. Before, and after, and now after again. But all of my life happened in between, and I’ve given him all of myself I’m willing to.”

“If you’ve truly managed that you are wiser than I am,” he admits.

“Well, I try,” she says lightly. “I’m _trying_ , anyway. It was something Merlin told me, actually. I was miserable, but he told me that what we build now is the part that matters. It helped put things into perspective a bit for me, to put him away. He’s not what’s important anymore, and hasn’t been, not for a long time.” She shuts the book, straightening the long ribbon that acts as a placeholder. “And you? Are you well?”

He tries to give it earnest thought, to reply to her honesty in kind. “Will you think less of me if I admit I am? I don’t miss him. And you didn’t hear what he said to Merlin, when he broke the spell.”

“What did _you_ say?”

“That I wouldn’t let any man talk to Merlin like that.” And he wouldn’t.

“You really love him, don’t you? Merlin, I mean?” She is whispering, a smile curling around the edges of her lips. “I knew you did, you were very obvious to anyone who knew you at all. And then of course I saw you gave him Ygraine’s sigil. Did he even know what it meant?”

“Oh, probably not,” Arthur admits. Merlin smiles at him from across the room, and he smiles back, his heart warm where it sits in his chest. It gives him the courage to speak his mind. “I don’t have much family, but I am glad you are my sister. Thank you for staying.”

She kicks him under the table, her eyes misting. “Oh, what have you done with Arthur Pendragon?” She pitches her voice loudly, so Merlin can hear, “Someone has replaced my brother with a man who can speak of his feelings without bursting into flame, was it you?”

“It was,” Arthur says sotto voice to her.

“Disgusting,” she rolls her eyes, but she can’t quite be rid of her smile as she stands. “Goodnight, Merlin, I shall see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Morgana,” Merlin answers, watching them both fondly. After the door clicks closed behind her he turns to Arthur. “Alright?”

He nods. It is alright.

Merlin’s journal that he kept while away is sitting by his bedside. He has read through it three times already, but he picks it up again.

“ _Dear Arthur,_ ” he reads aloud, “ _I miss you something terrible, especially when I’m with that hag Morgana. You are the most handsome man in all the kingdoms, and I dream nightly of your-_ Ow!” He cuts off abruptly as Merlin throws a hand over his mouth.

“It doesn’t say that,” he says, red as a beet.

“No, it says so clearly, right here, I see it, Merlin-no!” He wins the short fight for the book, and pretends to read several more odes to his own beauty, until Merlin has hidden his head under his pillow entirely.

He sets the book down with a grin and drags Merlin out of hiding and to his chest, entwines their legs until they are pressed together from the brush of their noses to Merlin’s cold feet. He kisses him without intent, just for the sake of it, until they have to part for breath, and then kisses him some more.

***

The Afanc is fast, far faster than something of that size should be. In the tight caverns it is hard to use fire as a weapon, and swords do nothing to it.

Percival hits it with an axe strike so strong that makes Arthur suck in a breath of air to witness, and half of it seems to crumple inwards - yet it still moves as quick as ever. It tries to dart past him, and Excalibur carves a gleaming mark against its foul skin, sizzling and spitting. It falls to the ground with an echoing shriek.

“I should quite like to learn more about that sword,” Morgause says even as she lights it on fire, finally pinned. Morgana creates a whirlwind around it while Merlin contains it tightly within a shield. Between the three of them it is nothing more than ash in moments.

“Ugh,” Gwaine complains, coughing. “That is wretched. None of you know a spell for being rid of odours, do you? I fear this will never come out of our clothes.”

“Our enemies will flee before us,” Percival says sedately.

“When they smell us coming,” Elyan laughs, clapping him on the back as Leon tries to stifle his laughter. They aren’t wrong though, his eyes are watering from the reek of it.

“Will the water be safe now?” Gwen has the good sense to ask. “Or is there a cleansing or something else that needs to be done?”

No one is certain, so they head deeper into the water supply. The mood is far lighter with its handy defeat - Nimueh may have sent it to make herself known, but their answer to her is clear enough as well. Merlin’s magelight leads them through the dark tunnels and to the water, sparkling under the blue and gold lights. He kneels in front of it, cocking his head to the side, frowning.

“Hello?” He calls out, and Arthur looks around the empty cavern. Lancelot shrugs next to him when they catch one another’s gaze.

A feminine giggle answers, and at the edge of the water a pale blonde head rises, an endless cascade of clear water running from her, through her. He tightens his hand around Excalibur, but feels no danger. For one blinking moment he thought it was the beautiful lady in the lake who had saved him, but no, her face is unfamiliar to him.

“Well met, Emrys,” she says, “thank you for ridding the water of that beast.”

“Oh, oh no, that wasn’t me - it was a group effort,” he waves off her thanks, embarrassed and ducking his head.

“Yes, I saw,” and she eyes Percival in particular, “you’re very strong,” she praises. “And greetings to you, King Arthur,” she says to him, bowing until her brow touches the water again.

“My lady,” he bows back to her and she titters charmingly, little bubbles popping in the air with it. Merlin bites his bottom lip, amused. “May we have your name?”

“I am of the Vilia, a water sister,” she answers. “I was unable to stop the Afanc, even in my own home. It upset the balance of nature, so if it pleases you I would heal the water as a show of thanks for your deeds.” She tilts her head, her silvery fair hair drifting along with the ripples in the water, down into the depths past his sight. He looks at Merlin, who smiles encouragingly back at him.

“We would be honored,” he agrees. She slides back into the water without another word, gone quick and without a splash. For a moment nothing happens at all, and he wonders if the work is already done, but a light begins to shine up from underneath the water. It glows like sunlight, and casts luminescent trails along the stone cavern walls, awash with gold. He watches it shimmer in peaceful splendor until he hears a splash. Merlin is gone, and an otter swims playfully out of reach until he dives down under the water.

“Merlin!” He calls out, chagrined. He should know better than to be surprised, but he still taps his foot impatiently until he reappears again. Gwen and Morgana only grin at him, but he knows this is the first time some of these people have seen Merlin change shape, and he keeps a wary eye out. He only sees amusement - Gwaine - and awe, however, and he lets his shoulders loosen again.

Merlin is beaming when he’s a man again, and he waves happily back at the water, where a crystal clear hand reaches out to wave back to him. He swears he hears one last echoing giggle as it pulls beneath the surface of the water.

“I wanted to see,” Merlin justifies, “and they didn’t mind.”

“Oh, well, good, as long as they didn’t _mind_ ,” Arthur throws his hands into the air.

“They _didn’t_ ,” Merlin insists, “they were very nice! They certainly seemed to like you, who knows why.” He pokes at Arthur’s side, beaming, pleased with himself and his new friends. He doesn’t protest as Arthur swings an arm over him to muss his hair.

“I have never met a Vilia before,” Morgause says quietly to Merlin as they head home, triumphant. “I have only heard about them in stories. I thought they had left this land entirely.”

“No,” Merlin says with a knowing grin, “I think there is a lot more magic in Camelot than even Nimueh ever knew. I know she taught you, but she wasn’t right about everything, and magic is _far_ from gone from this land.”

She surveys them with sharp eyes, trailing over Merlin’s smile and where Arthur’s arm still sits possessively around his waist now, to where Excalibur glows like a beacon in his other hand.

“Perhaps,” she agrees, looking as kind as he’s ever seen. “If so I’m glad of it.”

“Do you have any insights on what might follow this?” Arthur asks.

“In the immediate? No. In the long term?” She frowns. “If she will not be persuaded to leave Camelot be she will continue to attack, but she would have been unable to take the city by herself while Uther was king, it was why she waited so long. You grow stronger and have powerful magic to aid you - she’ll need allies.”

Arthur suspects Cenred or Caerleon would have no issue with necromancy or any dark arts if it meant more power. Bayard would be more cautious, but he was an opportunist. The few tentative missives from Nemeth were more promising, and Rodor was a good man.

“Her greatest strength is a relic from the Isle,” Morgause continues. “Her hydromancy is powerful, and dangerous, but with the cup of life she can use necromancy for even greater feats.”

“The cup of life?” Merlin asks warily.

Morgause shakes her head. “I know very few of its secrets, it is difficult to control - and something Nimueh was always covetous over. I do know one legend of it though. A drop of a man’s blood in the cup will grant immortality until it is spilled, and as many drops as the cup can hold… well, it would be an army.”

“An immortal army?” Arthur said slowly. “Wonderful.” He can see Leon look back, they aren’t being quiet.

“She would keep it with her, it’s too powerful for her to part with it willingly.”

Arthur cannot help his dark sigh as they pass back into the daylight, finally leaving the caverns. Merlin’s light flickers out, no longer needed. “Any number of kings would be willing to make her endless promises over an immortal army.”

“But is it ever so simple as that?” Merlin looks doubtful, “Immortality for only a drop of blood?”

Morgause smiles sharply at him. “You are right, there is a cost. The moment the blood enters the cup the man is dead already. They would pay a terrible price to keep their bodies fighting - the instant it is spilled they will fall. I doubt she’ll tell them so,” she finishes, smiling meanly.

“No,” Merlin grimaces, “she wouldn’t, would she? She has little care for life,” he says more sadly.

“There’s no cause for undue worry. We’ll be ready,” Arthur promises, and is met with a raucous chorus of agreements, even with a new threat hanging over them.

They will be ready. Together they will make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about Arthur - he tends to knight people or reward people with titles or positions when he wants to keep them close to him. I think Merlin kind of existing in an intangible space is hard for him but important for now. He trusts Merlin wants to stay, but he'd rather have something official to (I think anyway) protect himself with, a clearly set role for them both. I also think Merlin was right to be afraid of what people would think of him. If you have power in this world people want it and fear it, and he's just happy to be surrounded by people who love and support him - I think he doesn't care at ALL about having a title for it. So they aren't quite at odds since neither of them has said anything, but they are approaching their relationship differently, even if they want the same things.
> 
> I have no idea where I was going with that, I just think Arthur is interesting!


	23. Merlin Doesn't Fight Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who is still reading, your feedback makes me more happy than I know how to express!

Merlin is hiding.

Not from Arthur, just from, well, everybody else. It’s not really fair of him - things have been going so well after all - he just needs a moment. Just a moment.

There has been no time, not for leaving the city anyway, and he had never quite realised how _loud_ Camelot was. He had wanted to come back so badly, and now as contrary as it is he would dearly love to spend a night in the forest once more, with only the sounds of the trees singing him to sleep.

 _Arthur could come though_ , he thought, and remain the warm line at his back during the night that had so quickly become familiar.

“And you could come, if you wanted,” he told the dog who eyed him judgmentally for waking her. The shaggy long limbed beast could never hope fit in Merlin’s lap, but she was giving a solid effort. He thought this one was called Aned, but he hadn’t had much time for the hunting dogs lately.

No one was odd to his face about the magic, not with the king around anyway. And he always knew it would take time. But despite how often Arthur had called him an idiot when they met, he wasn’t one - and he wasn’t blind.

Sometimes he felt he was using Arthur, hiding behind his skirts as much as he was hiding in the kennel now. In many ways Uther’s animal, rabid hate when he had seen Merlin’s glowing eyes side by side with his son had been one of the most honest reactions he’d known. It was an ugly thought, and he was being unfair and moping. It was just new to people is all.

Nevertheless, he hid.

He pushed his face into the dog’s wiry fur and tried to focus only on the good things. Imbolc had come and gone, and Arthur had asked Merlin to show him how to make a Brigid’s cross. As clumsy as the king was with it, he had done it with solemn and serious thanks. When Merlin had asked what Arthur was thanking her for the king had kept his eyes on his work as he said plainly _‘For you’._

Depending on who you asked, Merlin might not have stopped blushing since.

It still hung in their window even now, the woven rushes so different to the other splendid decorations in their chambers. And wasn’t that odd, _their_ chambers. Sometimes when his sleep was troubled Merlin watched it gently twist, the shadows and moonlight getting caught in it, and just listened to Arthur breathe.

Morgana had divined that day, with good portents. When she scryed for Nimueh she saw no danger. They had stopped the Afanc together, so easily.

 _Too easily_ , his mind said, traitorously, and he shook his head to clear it, feeling the rough fur under his cheek.

The snow had melted, and they would leave the castle soon, to attempt to tend to the land like the druid’s did. Like he had maybe-perhaps-possibly done in Howden, with the river. The healing would take time, and effort, and he was looking forward to being under the huge open sky again, to feeling the earth under his feet.

Aned gave a huge gusty sigh and rolled to show her belly, kicking him in the face in the doing of it.

“Ow, thanks,” he said dryly, but he obligingly gave her scritches, so she would never learn better. Aned didn’t care about his magic _at all_.

“There you are!” Gwaine’s bright voice came.

Merlin became a dog, and gave a lanky stretch before joining the rest of the crowd of furry beasts hoping to become lost in it. Aned grumbled at the loss of her pillow. He blinked innocently as Gwaine was not fooled.

“Aw, puppy,” Gwaine crooned, not without sympathy. “You were missing without word, so the king got his petticoats all twisted. Want me to tell him you weren’t dognapped?”

He howled, setting off some of the other dogs and making Gwaine cover his ears and roll his eyes. Merlin gave a great teeth flashing yawn, enjoying himself, feeling his tail thwack back and forth. He had been on his best behavior lately, it was a bit fun to be difficult just for the sake of it, although he would never admit it outloud. Gwaine was just of such a jovial nature that he became very easy to tease - Merlin could hardly be blamed for it.

Still, he couldn’t actually hide all day.

He stayed a dog as he snaked through the bare pinch of space between Gwaine’s leg and the gate, getting briefly tangled in the knight’s cloak for his trouble. They walked silently back towards the castle, and if Gwaine pet his head a few times he figured that was alright.

“Is that odd of me?” The knight asked. “What’s it like to be an animal?”

Merlin can’t quite shrug as a dog, but he tries. He doesn’t mind getting a pat as a dog since he doesn’t mind that as a human either, and he’s really just the same no matter what his shape. He presses his weight into Gwaine’s leg and nearly bowls him over. He must be bigger than he thought.

If anyone thinks it’s odd to have one of the hunting dogs in the castle no one is willing to challenge Gwaine about it, and they are let into Arthur’s chambers when they knock. Merlin immediately goes to curl up by the fire.

“Merlin,” Arthur notices, before Gwaine can get a word out.

“How’d you figure that?”

“Ears,” Arthur says dryly. “And those spindly legs, and the cheekiness, general laziness - oh, a lot of reasons, really,” he directs more towards Merlin than Gwaine, fighting a smile. “Fine, wallow about if it pleases you. Sir Gwaine and I will just amuse ourselves with vital kingdom business over here.”

Merlin tucks his nose under his curly tail and gives a meaningful snore.

He doesn’t intend to actually sleep, but the fire is very warm, and Arthur’s voice is a familiar soothing sound, and even Gwaine’s laughter can’t rouse him. He thinks he hears Leon come in and say something, but a dream is already shaping around him, shreds of his early worries taking form.

One moment the stone floor beneath him is in Arthur’s chambers, the next his feet are shuffling on it standing before Uther’s.

_There is no sound at all from behind the heavy wooden door, no indication of who lies past it._

_“Are you certain?” Arthur asks him again, subdued. “I would not demand this of you.”_

_“It’s alright,” Merlin assures him, tightening his hand where it held his satchel, loaded with supplies. There was only a door between them and the king, Leon flanking them far enough back to give the illusion of privacy._

_If he reaches through the space between them with his mind he can feel the thick malaise of dark magic, stagnant and foul. There is no doubt Uther has suffered these past months, and while Merlin cannot forgive him he cannot stop the swell of pity. Arthur had been right - there are depths they should not sink to, and this was torture._

_Nimueh might savor it, but when confronted with the reality of it he could not, no matter how horrible Uther had been. He needed to be stopped, but there was no sort of justice to be found here, only bitterness._

_The turn of the key in the lock echoed through the silence, and through the door Uther sat still as a statue, looking out his window with unseeing eyes. He did not turn to them as they entered, even when Arthur called his name, or even at the rasp of chalk when Merlin drew a neat runic circle. Not for the click of the crystal set down in the center, or the wisp of flame from the candle._

_Pulling the dark magic out of the air feels like dragging tar with his bare hands. Sticky and miserable, cloying down his throat as he tries to force it into the crystal instead. He closes his eyes in concentration._

_He knows it has worked when he hears Uther’s shout, his body hitting the floor - his weakened legs unable to carry him to strike at Merlin like he tries to. The sounds of two swords being drawn, Leon stepping in front of him, of Arthur’s raised voice, trembling with poorly restrained fury._

_He looks down at the crystal instead of Uther’s fevered eyes, blue and yellowed with illness. It is saturated with the sickly black magic, writhing-_

When he wakes up he is a man again, and his neck has a crick from sleeping in front of the fire. He gets no sympathy from any of them, not even Leon or Lancelot, who he hadn’t even heard arrive. He rubs his eyes as he looks over the map spread across the table, little figures and flags marking their path. It passes through the Ridge of Ascetir, and he meets Arthur’s gaze over the table - he’s not the only one who wants to visit the tree again.

It will take more than one tour around the kingdom to deal with the unbalance of the spilled blood of countless sorcerers, and from even before - the work of greedy magic users as well. A glut followed by a starvation. It would take years and years to heal fully. The gifts from the land have been deteriorating slowly for years and years after all, and they cannot expect to fix it in a day. But they can begin the arduous work. As more magic comes back things will right themselves, he knows it.

He hopes he can see the druids again.

“You looking forward to stretching your legs?” Gwaine asks him, leaning over the table to poke at one of the figures.

“It’ll be nice to get outside the castle in the fresh air for a bit,” he agrees around a yawn. “I miss trees.”

Lancelot nudges him with his foot playfully. “You’ll have your fill of them soon enough, and then you’ll be moaning about missing the castle and the kitchens.”

Arthur makes an agreeing noise from across the table, hiding a smile as he nods faux thoughtfully, and Merlin fights down his answering retort - they’re right after all. He’ll miss dumplings nearly immediately, is his guess.

“And Gwaine will be missing the tavern,” Leon says evenly.

“Hurtful,” Gwaine beams.

“But accurate,” both he and Arthur say in unison. “Go,” Arthur tells them, “get out, we have an early start tomorrow. Gwaine, if you arrive hungover I’m tying you to your horse, so don’t spend _all_ night in the tavern.”

“Only most of the night, understood sire,” he snapped off a sloppy salute, and Leon despaired behind him.

“Will we see Gwen tomorrow to say goodbye?” Merlin asked Lancelot while the others fought amongst themselves.

“I believe so,” Lancelot said, mouth twisting ruefully, “although she won’t enjoy being left behind.”

“Morgana will need her here more than we will on the road.”

“You don’t have to tell me - but I recommend you don’t try to tell her where she belongs, either.” He smacked Merlin’s arm like all the knights seemed to do, their unique method of affection still a mystery to him.

Once they’d all been shooed away he turned to Arthur, feeling a strange mood creeping over them.

“What is it?” He asked, when there was nothing forthcoming.

The king stopped fighting his frown, looking worried as he sighed. “Am I being too demanding of you?” He finally asked.

“Wait, what? I know I took a nap, but no,” Merlin scoffed, feeling relieved once he hears the issue, “you’re always telling me I’m doing too much - _people can’t become dependent on you, Merlin-_ ” He mocked in a very poor impression of his king.

“Not like _that_ ,” Arthur shook his head. “You were gone for an afternoon and I sent a knight after you - Gwaine implied-” he cut himself off, clearly uncomfortable, fiddling with the map edge in an unusual show of nerves.

It was true they had been all but welded to each other since Merlin had returned, but it had never _bothered_ him. Things had been tumultuous, of course they leaned on one another. And Arthur couldn’t reach out with a thought to check in that all was well like Merlin could. And did. Probably too frequently. He squirmed, wondered what Gwaine would say about _that_.

“I don’t think so?” He said, trying to think things over. “I worry about you too, you know. And I wasn’t hiding from _you._ ”

“Has someone made you feel unsafe?” He said in what Merlin thought of as his serious king tone.

Merlin sighs, “No, of course not. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say to be honest. Just, me too, I guess.”

Arthur cleared his throat, “I know I have my faults. I can be…” he holds up a hand to stop Merlin’s incoming wave of playful suggestions, not in the mood, “difficult. Possessive,” he admits more honestly, “I would give you-”

“I don’t _want_ anything,” Merlin interrupts him this time, not willing to indulge this, as Arthur crossed his arms and tilted his chin stubbornly. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I just don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate-”

“I know you appreciate me, you don’t have to _give_ me things for me to know that.”

“You have done so much for us, and you belong in Camelot, you deserve to be acknowledged for-”

Merlin poked him in the side until he stopped and lowered his crossed arms, making a space for himself to push in. “Do you not believe me?” He asked Arthur’s collarbone, nudging until the other man brought his arms up around him.

Arthur holds him tightly, the tension leaving his muscles in minute increments. “Of course I believe you, I truly do, I swear it. I’m not sure what _I’m_ trying to say,” he copies Merlin, an even worse imitation.

Privately Merlin thought Arthur was not as unaffected by Uther’s death as he tried to be. Grief was a strange beast, and Arthur had always had precious little family to lose. He understands, at least a little. Wouldn’t he himself give anything to hold on to what he had?

“I’m not leaving,” Merlin reminds him, not for the first time.

“Of course not,” Arthur agrees roughly, and Merlin wonders just how long it will be before he believes it in his heart as well as in his head.

“It’s alright if it takes some time for you to understand it,” Merlin says in his sweetest voice, “I know all you knights are thick,” and he savors Arthur’s huff of offended laughter, “but I love you anyway.”

***

They ready to leave with the sky still rose colored and the dew still frosty on the grass. He pats Chestnut as she tosses her head, happy to have her again. He had missed her while they were gone.

He’s also happy to have a new cloak - as much as he had resisted getting so many new things, his blue cloak is thick and warm, and gloriously soft. And if there were a handful of little many pointed golden stars woven near the clasps it was understated enough that he could be gracious and not raise a fuss. Arthur smirks at him knowingly. He also wears the gloves Morgana had given him, and when he catches her eye she gives him a mirror smirk to match her brother’s. Ugh. He despairs of the pair of them.

He turns to Gwen instead, who gives him a kiss on the cheek. Much better.

“Oh, have fun!” She wishes him well. “I wish I could go with you. Lancelot will keep you safe though,” she tells him brightly, pushing a bit of hair out of his eyes as she smiles up at him.

“I’ll keep him safe, too,” he promises in return, lifting her a bit when he gives her a hug. They don’t anticipate trouble, and there are a good dozen knights coming along as well as squires and camp hands. But still. “It’s only a few weeks before we’re back.”

“Don’t just turn into a bird and fly away if you get bored, you’ll give Arthur palpitations,” she cautions him. “And don’t forget your boots anywhere.”

“I would _never_ ,” he says with great dignity.

He doesn’t fall when he clambors to get up in the saddle, out of practice, but it’s a near thing. He looks around to see if anyone but Gwen noticed, and he spies Arthur and Morgana both hiding a laugh. She pats his knee consolingly.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he instructs her, and then louder, “and don’t let Morgana redecorate Arthur’s chambers while we’re gone.”

“An excellent idea, Merlin,” Morgana calls out, close enough to overhear.

“Yes, thank you Merlin,” Arthur says wryly, “an excellent idea.”

“Shouldn’t have laughed then, should you?” He murmurs to his king as he and Chestnut arrive to his side. He bites his lip but can’t hide his smile, and neither can Arthur. Morgana _tsks_ at them.

They depart side by side. Plenty are awake even at this hour, and a few of the more daring children make a game of getting as close to Merlin as their courage can take them - making him feel that strange churn of happy sadness that has become so familiar to him lately. He whistles a tune and summons some of those little musical bubbles he’d conjured for Bram, a quick favorite of most of the children. When they cheer and gasp in delight it makes him forget his melancholy, and as Arthur reaches to ruffle his hair he can smile back at him sincerely.

A weight falls off of him once they are through the gates even still. The air is crisp and clean, and the sun is bright enough that his eyes water as it glints off the dew. Beautiful.

“Where are we going first, anyway?”

“You’d know if you hadn’t slept through the itinerary,” Arthur scolds him without heat, ease written all over his face. He must be happy to be in motion again just as Merlin is.

“Worth it,” he insists, and then settles in to listen.

They would head first to Willowdale, which was both close and could benefit from seeing some kind magic. They had been good to him, Arthur insists, and he’d repay them if Merlin would indulge him. It’s a joy to be out and riding, and the time passes quickly.

They do leave the path eventually, hours later, with the sun high in the sky. The knights have gone silent, and Merlin looks to Arthur, who has become contemplative as they change course.

“It’s rude to receive a gift and not offer thanks,” he says quietly to Merlin.

Leon leads them through the trees and up to a tranquil lake, where he dismounts and looks back at Arthur with an unreadable expression. Even Gwaine bows his head.

Merlin blinks slowly. He knows this lake, but how?

There is an echoing familiarity to it, a breath of old life in each ripple across the calm water. He follows Arthur as he walks to the edge, until little waves lap at his feet. The snow capped mountains in the distance keep vigil, and if he closes his eyes he can hear each tree hum in a slow melody that he swears he knows, if only he could remember it. It leaps away from him, beckoning.

Arthur kneels before the water, a hand on Excalibur at his side, and the other clasped over his heart. Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever seen his king pray before, but that is the only word he can think of for this. He takes a deep breath before he speaks, lowly enough that it is heard only by himself, Merlin, and the shimmering lake.

“My lady. I have been given many gifts that I am undeserving of. Magic has been too kind to me, for all the wrongs that I have done, for how slow I was to learn.” He sounds as grave and serious as Merlin has ever heard. “But I would thank you and keep them nonetheless. I give you my oath, that I will do better, to be worthy of them. Of all of my people. I swear I will only raise this sword to defend what is good, and-” he closes his mouth, throat clicking. “I will endeavor to keep courage in my heart. Thank you, for the lives of myself and my men.”

He sits back on his heels, a tired man instead of a king. His dark red cloak fans behind him, the golden thread of the embroidered dragon glinting.

 _Thank you_ , Merlin sends into the depths of the water, and it feels woefully inadequate. But the presence under the waves is knowing, and they share such a kinship that even as he feels open and bare before it he cannot feel frightened.

“Do you think she heard me?” Arthur asks him, eyes over the still water, so young.

“You were heard,” They promise, Merlin and her. “My king.”

The waves have wet Arthur’s knees, and he sits there among the stones for a long while.

“Should you try and do your magic here?” He asks eventually. “To help and restore it?”

“Oh, this place doesn’t need it,” Merlin says, amused once more. “It would take more than earthly forces to disrupt the powers _here_.”

When Arthur rises to his feet he gives Merlin a lopsided smile. His knights rise as well, and that’s the first time Merlin realises they had taken knee. Of course they had - he was the only one tactless enough to stay standing as their king knelt.

“Sire,” Leon says solemnly. “If I would be permitted I would offer my thanks.”

“And I,” Gwaine says, looking at his feet. “I know I’d be dead if not for you. And whatever happened that night.”

“Well, some of that one’s on Merlin,” Arthur says with a sniff, “but if you want to talk to a lake like some sort of manic far be it for me to stop you.”

“Team effort,” Merlin reminds them, and when they go to the edge of the water to give their own thanks, he leans into Arthur. “She does know, I promise,” he says again. “She knows your heart as well as I do, and I have never lost faith in it.”

“I can only vow to never give you a reason to doubt, my heart.” Arthur presses their foreheads together, breathes his air, before he pulls back with a soft expression to reassemble the rest of the knights. Merlin hears the squires whispering amongst themselves. He knows the fight at the barrow had already begun to turn into something of a legend, and he wishes not for the first time that he had been there himself.

The lake is still silent as they leave, motionless and unchanged on the surface, but Merlin knows better. It’s peaceful and happy, and he feels light as air. He also keeps a grip on Chestnut’s reins, having learned that lesson once already.

Arthur refuses the room that is offered to him when they arrive at Willowdale, content to stay with his men, and there are too many of those to house. Merlin does wonder if it has to do with the news he received here last visit, but perhaps he is learning something of tact, because he manages to keep his mouth shut.

He still feels unbearably awkward to be served, and no one can quite manage to keep him from helping with the dishes or tending to the fire.

The first time one of the knights calls him ‘my lord,’ Merlin nearly spits out his dinner.

“I’m no lord,” Merlin laughs uproariously. He sees the man look over his very nice cloak, where he sits next to the king, and then over into Arthur’s eyes. The useless lump of a king only gives a shrug in return with the energy of one who has long since given up.

“He’s Merlin,” as though that was explanation enough. Once Sir Osric had nodded uncertainly Arthur turned to whisper into Merlin’s ear. “This right here is why you should let me give you a title, look, you’re confusing them.”

“I told you knights were thick,” Merlin whispers back, mocking. “Ah, hey!” He yelps as Arthur pinches his side from where his hand had been making itself at home under his blue cloak. “I’ll get you for that,” he hisses.

“I shall look forward to it,” Arthur says hotly against his ear, before he leans back to reenter the conversation with Leon and Lancelot, casual as anything. His hand is gentle now, his thumb rubbing circles where he’d playfully tweaked him, apologetic. Gwaine wiggles his eyebrows at him from across the fire and Merlin fights a blush, feeling very obvious.

Arthur’s hand doesn’t leave him for the rest of the evening, huge and warm against his waist, until he’s dizzy from it. Merlin swears his revenge.

He doesn’t think Arthur learns anything from it though. In fact he seems rather pleased with himself. Smug, even.

Merlin swears his revenge once more.

The next morning, he begins his work.

That is to say, he wanders around a field, feeling very nervous as he’s followed by a king, a dozen knights, a handful of squires, servants, and what seems like the entire population of Willowdale. It couldn’t be all of them, certainly. Some of them must have jobs. Places to be.

“It’s really not going to be exciting,” he had cautioned.

“We’re not doing this because it’s _exciting,_ Merlin,” Arthur had said, but the warlock still felt like there was a pressure to make this more interesting than it was.

He presses his hands into the earth. In the white light of the morning his skin seems very pale, his blue veins running like little rivers. It’s a simple thing now, to let his magic flow from him, sure of it’s welcome. Nothing happens on the surface, but the land soaks in everything he offers to it as it slowly begins to right itself. He sits back with a sigh, brushing his hands clean.

“Is that all?” Gwaine asks, and Leon elbows him.

“Pretty much,” Merlin admits, feeling shy. They lose a few people as they wander through the fields, and he takes off his boots at some point, finding it easier, rolling up his cuffs. _Magic feet_ , he thinks, amused.

“Don’t lose these, Gwen will never ever let me hear the end of it,” he begs, as he pushes them into Lancelot’s arms.

“So we’re just going to walk through every field in Camelot? I’m not complaining, I just want to know,” Gwaine complains. Merlin walks faster. “Can we race?” He speeds up his pace to match Merlin, and then again.

He gives Gwaine a cheating shove before he takes off, little sprigs of green shooting out of the ground behind him as he tears away. He can hear the knight whooping as he gives chase.

“Whoever catches him is the new king of Camelot,” Gwaine shouts, and when Merlin twists to look he can see a few of the village boys breaking off to join in.

His feet pound into the soil and he lets his joy fuel his magic with each step. Lancelot is cheering for him to go faster in the distance, heckling Gwaine. He runs and runs until he’s breathless, from the laughter as much as anything, and dodges the playful grabs that Leon makes at him, spinning until he sees Arthur. His hair is bright gold in the sunlight and his eyes are blue as the lake, but more importantly his arms are open, waiting for Merlin.

He doesn’t hesitate for a second to take a running leap at him, King of Camelot.


	24. Merlin Fights a Crystal

The thin branch of the rowan tree bent under his slight weight, springing back into place after his clumsy landing. One would think he’d have the hang of it by now.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting really, but he was relieved to find it still whole, still standing and growing in the pass, just as it was the last time he had seen it. If he stretched his mind down through the rings of the tree, through the roots and all the way into the earth he could feel the well of magic that continued to spread out past his farthest reaches. Clean and bright, it welcomed him sleepily.

He wondered if it reached all the way to the Isle of the Blessed.

The leaves and little white spring flowers trembled and rustled in the breeze that carried through the pass. Would the berries grow again? Or had that gift been spent.

He made enough awkward hops down to turn into a man again and let his boots hit the ground below with a crunch. The musky smell of the flowers hit him once he had his usual nose, and he sneezed three times in quick succession.

“Emrys,” a voice called while he was trying not to wipe his nose on his new fine things, and he spun around like Audrey had caught him stealing sweets.

“Mordred,” he laughed in silly relief when he saw that familiar little face, “what are you doing all the way out here?”

“Waiting for you - Iseldir said you would come!” His tone was more cheerful than Merlin had ever heard it. He must have been so frightened before, and much improved by being safe. He knew the feeling well.

“Does he know you came out to meet me on your own? What about your dad?”

“I’m not a _baby,_ ” he protested, but he looked a pinch guilty nonetheless. “And I’ve been here loads of times, we all help tend to the tree, and make sure no one harms it.”

“Well then I owe you some thanks, don’t I?” He said both to the boy and the tree. Merlin pulled of one of his gloves to let his hand rest against the smooth bark, bare. It felt more alike to the lake than the dry fields - he wasn’t sure that it needed anything more from him now. But he would give it anything, for whatever protection it had offered Arthur.

 _It’s rude to receive a gift and not offer thanks,_ Arthur’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Thank you,” he says again, and lets his brow rest against the trunk of the tree, hoping that whatever listened and dreamed among the roots understood him.

“Is it true that magic is welcome in Camelot now?” Mordred asked, coming to stand next to him. It hadn’t been too long since the last time they had met, but Merlin thought he stood a little taller.

“It is,” he said with a smile, “Arthur has made it so. If you’d like to visit again I can promise you Morgana and Gwen would be thrilled to see you well. But wait -” he realised suddenly, “I thought you had all moved on - Arthur said you’d left!”

“No,” Mordred scrunched up his nose, “we’ve been here ages. More keep coming, too, it’s getting crowded.”

“Maybe the two of us should find our way to the camp then.” Merlin squinted up at the sun, they should still be able to make it by nightfall.

“It’s only over there,” Mordred grinned at him, pointing at a distant path that wound into a low copse of trees and beyond, “we moved a lot closer.”

“Oh,” Merlin flushed. “Of course.”

He busied himself on not tripping while he pulled his glove back on and walked forwards at the same time. The camp truly had been brought far nearer, but it so well hidden so he felt he couldn’t be blamed for not knowing. He felt the magic like a thin veil around the whole of the pass now that he reached for it, less singularly focused on the tree. It was spun as fine as a spider’s web, but the few travellers who came this way would certainly never find the druids while it held.

“Clever work,” he said to Iseldir once they met outside the trees, “and hello,” he beamed.

“Emrys,” the white haired man bowed his head, even as Merlin held up his hands to stop him. “We’re glad to see you return. Please,” and he gestured for them to follow.

The druid camp had expanded hugely, more settled than the last time Merlin had visited by far. Woven runic trappings and rushes lined the empty air between the trees, while sunlight poured through the crown of the forest. Little crystals spun, dangling from branches and casting colorful spectors on the wagons and sturdy tents when the sun hit them. A mouth of a cavern led further into the rockface, shelter from the weather no doubt. He could hear the voices of not only the druids here, but the trees along with them, a harmony.

“How beautiful,” he said to himself.

“Thanks,” Mordred answered him, and Merlin wondered if they were talking about the same thing. Perhaps they were.

He ruffled Mordred’s hair in a way he had always found very annoying as a child, and from the way he wriggled Mordred didn’t like it any better. He laughed, feeling very happy - if only Arthur were here to see this. He’d been left behind in the last village, where they were having issues at the border, and Merlin was sent ahead. He’d gotten far enough away that no one would notice if he took flight, and from then it was a short journey indeed.

“If you would,” Iseldir motioned for him to sit with him, taking his own seat on the low benches arranged around a central campfire. “Mordred, perhaps your father is looking for you?”

Mordred rolled his eyes before he stomped away, and Merlin hid his smile.

“I was under the impression your camp had moved on,” he said.

“Forgive the necessary deception,” Iseldir said dryly, “but it is far better that no one knows we are here, nor what we tend. Although he was still a prince at the time, King Arthur will always be welcome. I did not have the same confidence in his knights, perhaps.”

“I know a little bit about that I suppose,” Merlin agreed easily, kicking his boots out in front of him.

“I thought you might. I am glad to have the opportunity to speak to you again. There are things I would share with you if you would listen.” Merlin met his solemn eyes, the moment stretching long between them before he nodded.

“What is it?”

“It is not something that can be named. I can only offer what little guidance that one future has chosen to share with me. You have brought the tree here, and away from the Isle’s dead earth, and in doing so you have woken a sleeping seed of magic - a return sorely needed.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Merlin admits quietly, shaking his head in denial. “You all seem to think I am… greater than I am. I just wanted something- something _more_ , and for Arthur, I’m not-”

“I don’t think it really matters if it was your intent or not in this instance, do you? It is done, and a dark path has been narrowly averted due to your desire to show a kinder side of magic to one who had only seen the worst of it. And yet there is still more that fate has laid before you. The future spreads before us all in many branching directions,” and he leaned forwards, let his fingers pull through the dirt at their feet, drawing spirals and wavering lines weaving away from a center point. “There are threats that lurk down every path, for such is the nature of the world, but there are those who would help you as well - for that is also the nature of the world.”

Merlin watched the lines take shape, feeling a tingling in the back of his mind. His senses felt muffled. The future. Time.

He had stopped time once before, but he was not Morgana - he saw no visions of the future.

“I don’t understand, what are you trying to tell me?”

“There is a calling for you, from the Crystal Caves, and I am to send you there, to Taliesin, who will teach you. The tree is a font of magic into the land that you restored, but the caves are where all magic in Albion was born. You must go there, and see the many paths that lay before you in the faces of the crystals, and receive more guidance than I can offer. This is what _I_ see.”

He wasn’t quite sure whether or not he wanted to know what they would show him.

“Come,” Iseldir rose, walking towards the entrance to the cavern. Merlin scrambled to his feet to follow, blinking at the rush of noise that seemed to come back to him all at once.

The cave was cool. Dark, save for the flickers of torchlight.

There were many faces he did not recognize, and a handsome man placed himself between Iseldir and whatever lay further within. He had been waiting.

“Aglain,” Iseldir greeted him, but was merely amused to be ignored.

“Emrys,” the newcomer said warmly. “Don’t you listen to this old coot - the future isn’t for men to know. Not even you.”

“There are warnings he should hear-”

“It is _folly_ to hear them, and trying to avoid them only brings further folly still. You may have great power, Emrys, but that only means the consequences of your actions reach further than most. If you clutch too tightly to your own desires against the workings of fate you may lose them all the quicker.”

“Peace,” Iseldir implores, “to see the potential futures does not mean to change them, it brings wisdom-”

“How old are you, Emrys?”

Merlin stuttered, feeling very much like a child being spoken over by disagreeing parents. “Twenty and one?” He answered, a question in it.

“Yes, the famed wisdom of young men,” Aglain teased gently. “Especially of very powerful young men, who are well used to changing things to suit themselves. I’m sure if he were to see a fate that displeased him laid before him in the crystals he would meditate until he found peace and do nothing to alter it.”

“I don’t _always_ get my way,” Merlin protested, feeling very embarrassed.

“Do you not?” Aglain raised his eyebrows, “With all your magic, and a king who would offer you the world?” The back of Merlin’s neck heated. “If you saw his death would you accept it gracefully? Or perhaps you see that your true path lies now in healing the Perilous Lands - would you leave Camelot behind so easily?”

All three of them knew the answer to that. He swallowed. “No.”

“He should not be ignorant to the workings-”

“I’m not saying he should be ignorant, but he should not forget that he-and _all_ people-live in the _present_.” Aglain interrupts. “Live a little longer, Emrys, before you go chasing a future that will come regardless. Savor your time, do not seek to rush it.”

“…Is it death, that lies ahead?” Merlin asked quietly. “Is that why you want me to see? And why you don’t?” His eyes flickered between the two men. Both meant him well, he truly believed, despite their different opinions on the sight. He hadn’t realised there was such a division of thought within the druids.

 _Of course there would be though_ , he thought then, feeling as childish as Aglain had implied. _They’re still human_.

“Death comes for all mortal men eventually,” Iseldir said with a sigh.

“It does,” Aglain agreed, and shifted on his feet. “Emrys. _You_ are the only one who decides what to do with the time you are given. You do not have to go to the caves unless it is what you choose, no call is stronger than your own will. That is all I will say further on the matter - I’ll leave you be now, both of you.” He nodded respectfully to both of them, and Merlin bobbed awkwardly back at him as he turned away, as good as his word.

“I need to think,” Merlin rasped, averting his eyes and stepping backwards, back towards the trees and away from Iseldir, “I can’t decide on my own. Morgana is the one who sees the future, I’m not sure I need to know-”

Iseldir shakes his head, “No one person truly sees all futures. Neither myself, nor you, nor she. I do agree soundly with Aglain on that - do not give too much of yourself to any vision, no matter how tempting. The cruelest tricks of fate come when trying to avoid them.”

The camp was just as beautiful once he stepped back into the sunlight, the life there just as rich. It calmed him to draw in a breath of the fresh air, vibrant and scented with green things. But not enough.

Mordred brought a girl up to him who wanted to ask after Arthur, and Merlin promised himself to tease the king about his young admirer when he saw him once more.

“Do you really call King Arthur cabbagehead?” A young boy asked him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Not as often as I used to,” Merlin admits, deeply amused. “He is really much less of a cabagehead now overall.”

They send him off with a cheer as he bows at the children and becomes a bird, but the air feels heavier on his wings than it did that morning.

***

It weighed on him.

Back to the village, and back to Camelot, and longer still.

There was a skirmish near the border with men who wore no colors as they returned, and while they were no match for the armored knights on horseback it made Merlin wonder if war truly lay in their futures. Arthur seemed to think so - or at least he was not willing to risk that it was not. _Scouts for Cenred_ , the king theorized, standing over one of the bodies, grim.

Merlin might be able to find out, to glean the truth from the crystals. Didn’t he owe it to everyone to try?

Yet Aglain’s cautions stilled him. What if he did more harm than good?

His sleep was increasingly troubled, visited by stranger and stranger dreams that gave him no answers or wisdoms. A door had opened in the corner of his mind, if only he would dare look at what lay beyond. Is this how Morgana had felt? So bizarrely out of body in the day, only to focus sharply once night came? An endless stream of nonsense flooded him each time he closed his eyes.

He should ask her for advice, for whatever insight she might have. She could not control her dreams fully either, but she must be faring better than this. He bit his tongue and said nothing, uncertain what answer he wanted to hear. He knew Arthur was worried about him, that was clear even with how foggy things sometimes seemed lately, sending him to Gaius and Alice, checking his temperature like a worried nurse.

 _Something_ was calling to him though, whenever he slept.

He could feel it, down below.

It had not troubled him even once before they left, but now it was a persistent voice in his ear, whispering. It wanted to be found. Or perhaps the far simpler truth was that it was merely _him_ who wanted to find it. He couldn’t quite tell.

He wasn’t sure there was a difference in the end, or if it mattered if there was.

When he felt clear headed and awake enough for it he wished he’d never returned to the druids, had never heard of the crystal cave. Prophecy, time - these were stones better left unturned.

His pillow was soft beneath his head, and he was warm under the blankets with Arthur as the world’s very finest warming stone. His strong hand was soothing as it combed gently though Merlin’s mess of hair. His low voice eased him towards sleep.

And his eyes went _wide_ and he sat bolt upright with a sharp shout - the last thing Merlin saw as he fell straight through the bedcovers, through the mattress, through the stone floors, down and down and down.

It was perhaps Merlin’s least favorite method of travel so far, he thought fuzzily as he fell. His stomach lurched and his eyes swam, the dark colors of the castle at night churning together in a maelstrom as he dropped through air and earth alike. He felt his stomach in his throat as he windmilled, clumsy without his wings. The bed sheets weren’t so bad as they passed through his skin, but the stone floor itched him horribly, like his whole body was being tugged through sand.

He distantly hoped no one else saw him falling through stories of the castle in his nightshirt and sleeping hose. At least he wasn’t naked.

He slowed and spun in the air, kicking uselessly until he landed with a thud. His ears were ringing in the echoing cavernous room. His hands stung where they slapped against the cold, dusty stone floor, and he groaned, bracing himself. His body felt like a hopeless tangle of tattered string, and he pressed his forehead down, hoping he wouldn’t be ill. Where was he?

It was pitch black, wherever it was. A magelight flickered to life with less than a thought, the warm gold glow spreading through the huge chamber. Heavy stone tombs flanked one side, and treasures untold the other. It was silent save his panting breaths.

The vaults?

The lure of whatever was calling him grew louder still, a persistent chime. It was a simple thing to turn to it, unerring. Impossible not to. A clear cut of crystal lay on a pillow across the chamber, and the instant his eyes fell upon it he could hear and see nothing else, consumed and consuming.

_He knows it has worked when he hears Uther’s shout, his body hitting the floor - his weakened legs unable to carry him to strike at Merlin like he tries to. The sounds of two swords being drawn, Leon stepping in front of him, of Arthur’s raised voice, trembling with poorly restrained fury._

_He looks down at the crystal instead of Uther’s fevered eyes, blue and yellowed with illness. It is saturated with the sickly black magic, writhing, poisonous. It shudders and shakes in the chalk circle, dancing as if in an earthquake while the rest of the room is still._

_“You do not speak to him like that- no man does,” Arthur says, “but especially not a coward like yourself! How many died needlessly because you could not bear to face yourself? What you’d done? If you try and strike at him again I will cut you down where you lie, you_ **_worm_ ** _.”_

 _“You would defend that_ **_thing_ ** _-”_

_“He is the only reason you will meet your death as a man might, you should thank him on your knees.”_

_“Vile_ **_snake!_ ** _You have been enchanted, Arthur, my son. See reason!”_

_“You will see justice for what you have done. What little justice can be found - nothing can undo your deeds. You have been sentenced to death-”_

_“By whose authority, I am king!”_

_“_ **_I am king!_ ** _”_

_And the crystal swallows the blackness whole as his voice booms louder, a shimmering wave piercing through the dark morass, golden chains sparking to existence instead, forged in a white hot fire. They crackle and sizzle in the wet air, dark with storm clouds. Each link pulls taught, straining to hold down a great beast. It is ugly, and beaten, but strains upwards even still._

_Its blood fills the cup, spilling over, saturating the ground. It is gold, and red as fire, and the grass withers underneath it, dried to nothing, burning in the pyre. The rivers swell until they run thick with blood, thicker, black - they leech up through the fields, chasing into the doorways, drowning the people where they lie in their beds. They do not stir no matter how he calls, and Morgana turns to shake him, shake him, until she is a burst of ravens, flying to the tower._

_It rises higher, unfolding piece by piece into the inky clouds. An egg the color of pearl trembles helplessly, and the black water rises higher still, extinguishing the stars in the sky with a violent hiss. A many headed snake eats them as they sputter out, one after another. Quenched like when Gwen is at the forge, the metal molten, coins and rings and crowns. They spin around him, dancing and shining. There are flower petals beneath her slippers as she smiles-_

_Morgause slaps him, eyes gold and molten as she yells, and the sun falls underneath the waves of water, chasing the moon below. When he looks down his feet dangle beneath him, pale and white as the black water is still climbing, ice cold as it touches his skin._

**_Merlin_ ** _, Arthur shouts, and the stars that still swim above sprout wings and start to fly away at the sound of his voice, feathers scattering further and further, safe in the shelter of the tree._ **_Merlin,_ ** _Arthur shouts, and-_

 _“You would defend that_ **_thing_ ** _-”_

_Excalibur is gleaming, held aloft. Arthur’s banner streaming behind him whipping in the howling wind. The field is bloody, filled with men twice dead. Three crowns-thunder burst above and lightning cracked the sky in two-four, five-for the king-_

**_Wake up!_ **

_And he will bring the fire down upon them, his lungs fill with smoke and sparks, for all that has been taken-_

**_Merlin, wake up!_ **

Arthur is gripping him, one hand cupping the back of his head to keep it off of the stone floor, and the other under his shoulders. His face is ashen, and he’s shouting, but Merlin can’t hear what he’s saying over his own gasping.

He can see Morgana and Morgause arguing over the crystal, Morgause blocking it from view before she covers it entirely with her cloak, wrapping it and storming away. Morgana rubs her eyes, she’s only in a fancy robe and a thin nightdress. She must be tired.

“Merlin, look at me,” Arthur is demanding, his voice coming from very far away. It’s simple enough to obey though, letting his head loll back. He smiles weakly down when he sees Merlin focus. “There you are, there you are. My heart, Merlin, what’s happened?”

“Arthur,” he says, and his throat croaks and hurts like he’s been screaming, “I don’t think I should have looked, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to, but I heard it.”

“Morgause is taking it away, alright? You don’t have to see it again, I swear it.” Frantic and sweating, but sincere. “It will be gone.”

“Sire,” Gaius pushes into his line of sight, “let me see him.”

Arthur doesn’t move away entirely, merely settling back so Merlin was resting against him, not letting go. Merlin was glad for it. He could feel the crystal as Morgause carried it away, could track it with his thoughts even now. How easy it would be to go to it again.

“Merlin, follow my finger,” Gaius ordered him, and passed his hand in front of Merlin’s gaze once, twice, three times. “His pupils are even,” he says.

“Don’t let me look again,” he begs Arthur, while he has the presence of mind to do so, while the strange mix of longing and horror he felt is still fresh. “Maybe I should find my way back, to before I looked at all,” he wonders aloud. “I don’t understand what I saw - was that what I was supposed to see? The water, the fire?”

“Morgana!” Arthur bellows, as Merlin rambles. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, pale. “Some sort of focus, I could feel that much. It showed him something. It felt like my own visions do sometimes, but Morgause begged me not to look into it.”

“But he did? It pulled him here - did it do this?”

“It did not,” it’s Gaius who answers. “It is called the Crystal of Neahtid. I have learned a little of it in my studies, and when it was captured and brought to Camelot. You would have no reason to know of it.” Arthur’s hand found his and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Sorcerers used to train their whole lives to scry with the crystal, it is fortunate Merlin has not suffered worse. It is said the secrets to time itself lie within. Men have been driven mad over it.”

“But why did you come here? You just slid out of my hands and straight through the bed, Merlin, I was terrified.” And he did look as unsettled as Merlin had ever seen. “You were just _gone._ ”

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to pull himself up, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know the crystal was here, but I was thinking about it, the cave. I think this was my fault.”

“The cave?” Gaius asks him, taking his pulse.

“The druids… they told me about it, that there was something I needed to see. But I don’t understand what. Maybe I should look again?” He swiveled his head to the doorway, Morgause couldn’t be so very far away yet.

“No!” Three voices sounded at once.

“Morgana, go and tell Morgause to seal it in an iron box. To hide it.” Arthur orders.

“Arthur, no-” Merlin protests, “it might be important!”

“You said yourself not to let you look again. Gaius says you could go mad - it’s dangerous. Neither you _nor_ Morgana will be looking at that thing so long as I have breath in my body.” And he will brook no argument, it’s clear from the set of his jaw.

“We’ll talk about what you saw together,” Morgana tries to mediate, “but I do not think it’s wise either. Not without practice. Just rest for now, please. Please.” And she smoothes one cool hand against his fevered brow, breaking away to follow her sister with quick steps.

“The crystal can show you many things at once, Merlin. Things that have passed, things that may never pass, and every moment in between, existing all at once. To look without training could have cost us dearly - cost us _you_. Foolish boy.” Gaius chides him.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin repeats tiredly again, “I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t know it was here, I was just _thinking_ about it.”

“Thinking,” Arthur scoffs, teasing gently, “well that explains the trouble. Should have known better, really, you don’t have enough experience thinking to manage on your own.”

Gaius makes a noise that indicates he’s well sick of both of them. “He will need to be watched, tonight. Just in case. Otherwise what he needs is rest.”

“I’ll watch over him,” Arthur agrees instantly. “Can you stand?”

It turns out he can - with a little help. They shuffle barefoot back to their chambers, where Merlin doesn’t even have the energy to heat a bowl of water to wash his feet before crawling into bed. _George will be so put out_ , he thinks to himself.

Arthur kisses each of his scraped up palms, and Merlin doesn’t say a thing when he’s arranged so he’s mostly laying on top of Arthur instead of on the bed.

“I’ll try not to fall through you,” he promises.

“You better not,” Arthur mutters as he cards through Merlin’s hair, eyes distant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, as always! Let me know what you think - I hope you enjoyed it!


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